UC-NRLF 


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$g  i\t  game  giut^or. 
A  LIFE  DRAMA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

1  vol.  16mo.   50  cents. 


CITY   POEMS. 


CITY    POEMS. 


BY 


ALEXANDER  SMITH, 

ACTHOR    OF    "A    LIFE    DRAMA,    AND    OTHER   POEMS.' 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR    AND    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LVII. 


-A.  TJT  HOIK'S       E  ID  I  T  I  O  JXT. 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART    ft    BOBBINS, 

New  England  Type  and  Stereotjpe  Foundery, 
BOSTON 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 
HORTON, 6 


GLASGOW, 41 

• 

SQUIRE  MAURICE, 47 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  WEDDING  ;  OR,  TEN  YEARS  AFTER,    71 

A  BOY'S  POEM, 77 

THE  CHANGE,  .  .134 


CITY  POEMS. 


IIORTOX. 

THE  other  night  I  lay  within  my  bed, 
Watching  my  dying  fire  :  it  mouldered  out. 
I  listened  to  the  strange  nocturnal  cries  : 
A  ballad-singer  'neath  my  window  stood, 
And  sung  hoarse  songs  ;  she  went  away,  and  then 
An  oyster-man  came  crying  through  the  streets  ; 
And  straight,  as  if  I  stood  on  dusky  shores, 
I  saw  the  tremulous  silver  of  the  sea 
Set  to  some  coast  beneath  the  mighty  moon. 
He  passed  into  the  silence.     Wafts  of  song 
From  arm-linked  youths,  as  they  meandered  home, 
Came  to  my  ears  ;  the  town  grew  still ;  and  then, 
Just  when  my  soul  was  sinking  into  dream, 
Alarm  of  "  Fire  !  "  ran  through  the  startled  street, 
And  windows  were  thrown  up  as  it  went  past. 
A  hasty  engine  tore  along,  and  trailed 
A  lengthening  crowd  behind.  "Ah,  ha  !  "  I  thought, 


6  CITY   POEMS. 

*  rf  »•     i  «.     •• 

"  That  maniac,  Fire,  is  loose  ;  who  was  so  tame, 

Wfreivlktie-  fihjldren  looked  into  his  face, 

He  laughed  and  blinked  within  his  prison-grate. 

His  fit  is  on  ;  the  merry  winking  elf 

Has  rushed  into  a  hungry  crimson  fiend  : 

Now  he  will  seize  a  house,  crush  in  the  roof, 

And  leap  and  dance  above  his  prey,  and  throw 

His  roaring  flickering  arms  across  the  sky  — 

May  he  be  bound  again  !  "     The  tumult  scared 

Soft-plumaged  Silence,  and,  when  it  was  gone, 

She  settled  down  again  with  outspread  wings 

Upon  the  place  she  left.     That  angel  Sleep, 

Who  blunts  the  edge  of  pain,  who  brings  from  heaven 

The  dead  ones  to  us,  took  my  hand  in  his, 

And  led  me  down  unto  the  under-world. 

We  stood  beside  a  drowsy-creeping  stream 
Which  ever  through  a  land  of  twilight  stole 
Unrippled,  smooth  as  oil.     It  slipped  'tween  cliffs 
Gloomy  with  pines  that  ne'er  were  vexed  with  wind. 
The  cliffs  stood  deep  in  dream.     The  stream  slid  on, 
Nor  murmured  in  its  sleep.     There  was  no  noise  ; 
The  winds  were  folded  o'er  that  drowsy  place  ; 
The  poppies  hung  unstirred.     I  asked  its  name. 
Sleep  murmured  ' '  Lethe."  "  Drink  of  it,"  I  thought, 
"  And  all  my  past  shall  be  washed  out  at  once." 
I  knelt,  arid  lifted  pale,  beseeching  hands  — 


HORTON.  7 

"  I  have  drunk  poison,  and  can  sleep  no  more  ; 

Give  me  this  water,  for  I  would  forget." 

But  Sleep  stood  silent,  and  his  eyes  were  closed. 

"  Give  me  this  water,  for  I  would  forget ; 

Give  me  this  precious  water,  that  I  may 

Bear  to  my  brothers  in  the  upper-world, 

And  they  shall  call  me  '  happy/  '  Sent  of  God/ 

And  Earth  shall  rest."     Sleep   answered,   "Every 

night, 

When  I  am  sitting  'neath  the  lonely  stars, 
The  world  within  my  lap,  I  hear  it  mourn 
Like  a  sick  child  ;  something  afflicts  it  sore  ; 
I  cannot  give  it  rest."     Upon  these  words 
I  hid  my  face  a  while,  then  cried  aloud, 
"  No  one  can  give  forgetfulness  ;  not  one. 
No  one  can  tell  me  who  can  give  it  me. 
I  asked  of  Joy,  as  he  went  laughing  past, 
Crushing  a  bunch  of  grapes  against  his  lips, 
And  suddenly  the  light  forsook  his  face, 
His  orbs  were  blind  with  tears  —  he  could  not  tell. 
I  asked  of  Grief,  as  with  red  eyes  he  came 
From  a  sweet  infant's  bier ;  and  at  the  sound 
lie  started,  shook  his  head,  with  quick  hand  drew 
His  mantle  o'er  his  face,  and  turned  away 
'Mong  the  blue  twilight-mists."    Sleep  did  not  raise 
His  heavy  lids,  but  in  a  drowsy  voice, 
Like  murmur  of  a  leafy  sycamore 


8  CITY   POEMS. 

When  bees  are  swarming  in  the  glimmering  leaves, 

Said,  "  I  ;ve  a  younger  brother,  very  wise, 

Silent  and  still,  who  ever  dwells  alone  — 

His  name  is  Death  :  seek  him,  and  he  may  know." 

I  cried,  "  0  angel,  is  there  no  one  else  ?  " 

But  Sleep  stood  silent,  and  his  eyes  were  closed. 

Me  thought,  when  I  awoke,  "  We  have  two  lives  ; 
The  soul  of  man  is  like  the  rolling  world, 
One  half  in  day,  the  other  dipt  in  night ; 
The  one  has  music  and  the  flying  cloud ; 
The  other,  silence  and  the  wakeful  stars." 
I  drew  my  window-curtains,  and,  instead 
Of  the  used  yesterday,  there  laughing  stood 
A  new-born  morning  from  the  Infinite 
Before  my  very  face  ;  my  heart  leaped  up. 
Inexorable  Labor  called  me  forth  ; 
And,  as  I  hurried  through  the  busy  streets, 
There  was  a  sense  of  envy  in  my  heart 
Of  lazy  lengths  of  rivers  in  the  sun, 
Larks  soaring  up  the  ever-soaring  sky, 
And  mild  kine  couched  in  fields  of  uncrushed  dew. 

f 

With  earnest  faces  bent  above  their  tasks, 
Some  ten  or  twelve  sat  with  me  in  the  room. 
He  at  my  right  hand  ever  dwelt  alone : 
A  moat  of  dulness  fenced  him  from  the  world. 


HORTON.  9 

My  left-hand  neighbor  was  all  flame  and  air, 

A  restless  spirit  veering  like  the  wind : 

And  what  a  lover !  what  an  amorous  heart ! 

In  the  pure  fire  and  fervency  of  love, 

Leander,  like  the  image  of  a  star 

Within  the  thrilling  sea,  was  scarce  his  match. 

His  love  for  each  new  Hero  of  a  week 

No  Hellespont  could  cool.     Among  the  rest, 

Sat  one  with  visage  red  with  sun  and  wind 

As  the  last  hip  upon  the  frosted  brier 

When  the  blithe  huntsman  snuffs  the  hoary  morn. 

He  poached  at  night  in  every  stream  for  miles  ; 

Knew  nests  in  every  wood.     Much  did  he  love 

To  gather  fragments  of  the  broken  past : 

Swords  from  old  fields  ;  carvings  from  hollow  towers 

The  wind  inhabits  ;  heath  from  martyrs'  graves 

Asleep  in  sunshine  on  warm  summer  moors  ; 

And  one  rude  splinter  did  he  cherish  much, 

Struck  from  the  stone  that  with  unwearied  hand 

Held  up  the  exulting  banner  of  the  Bruce, 

Which  all  that  proud  day  laughed  with  glorious  scorn 

Upon  its  baffled  foes.     And  there  was  one 

Who  strove  most  valiantly  to  be  a  man, 

Who  smoked  and  still  got  sick,  drank  hard  and  woke 

Each  morn  with  headache  ;  his  poor  timorous  voice 

Trembled  beneath  the  burden  of  the  oaths 

His  bold  heart  made  it  bear.     He  sneered  at  love, 


10  CITY   POEMS. 

Was  not  so  weak  as  to  believe  the  sex 
Cumbered  with  virtue.     0,  he  knew  !  he  knew ! 
He  had  himself  adventured  in  that  sea, 
Coulcl  tell,  sir,  if  he  would  —  yet  never  dared 
Speak  to  a  lady  in  his  life  without 
Blushing  hot  to  the  ears.     'Mong  these  I  sat. 
f 

The  clouds  flew  from  the  east  unto  the  west ; 
St.  Stephen,  from  his  airy  coronet, 
In  music  told  the  quarters  and  the  hours. 
We  talked  of  all  this  tangled  dance  of  Deaths, 
Wild-haired  and  naked  Pleasures,  Satyrs,  Drolls, 
Which  men  call  Life  ;  of  early  Love,  which  makes 
A  dusty  street  a  sunbeam,  daily  meals 
Enchanted  tables  spread  by  angel  hands, 
And  rough  serge  glistering  gold  ;  of  the  strange  light, 
The  incredible  bliss,  summed  in  the  word  "  beloved/7 
When  the  poor  heart,  bewildered  with  its  joy, 
Half  fears  that  it  is  fooled  ;  this  Pantomime, 
In  which  the  speckled  Clown  wins  every  trick ; 
Astonished  Pantaloon,  the  kicks  and  jeers  ; 
Rich  Harlequin,  the  glittering  Columbine, 
Brave  dress,  enjoyment,  universal  power ; 
A  single  slap  of  his  enchanted  sword, 
Grim  caverns  open  into  trees  of  gold  — 
At  which,  mayhap,  an  angel  andience  sits, 
Mingling  strange  comment  with  its  wildness.     Then 


nORTON.  11 

"We  talked  about  the  painter,  him  who  dwelt 

Within  the  white  house  on  the  moor,  alone, 

No  wife  to  love  or  hate,  no  human  bud 

To  burst  in  flower  beneath  his  loving  eye. 

An  empire's  fall  was  less  in  his  regard 

Than  sunshine  pouring  from  the  rifted  clouds 

On  an  old  roof-tree  furred  with  emerald  moss  ; 

A  wide  gray  windy  sea  bespecked  with  foam, 

A  ship  beneath  bare  poles  against  the  rain  ; 

Or  thunder  steeping  all  the  sunny  waste 

In  ominous  light.     One  keen  clear  autumn  day 

The  place  was  filled  with  silent  sabled  men 

Standing  in  whispering  knots.     Within  an  hour 

The  empty  house  was  left  to  whistling  winds 

In  which  the  curlew  sailed  with  wavering  cry, 

And  flying  sunny  gleams  —  a  dark  red  mound 

Six  paces  on  the  moor.     Nature  he  loved, 

Death  was  the  priest  that  wed  them  ;  he  is  hers 

Henceforward  now  forever.     Then  I  heard 

How  Charles  stood  'mid  the  roses  in  the  porch ; 

Within,  his  Cousin  watched  the  earliest  star, 

With  white  hands  fluttering  o'er  the  keys,  —  fair 

hands 

By  lingering  music  kissed  I     A  step  —  she  turned, 
Their  eyes  met,  and  that  swift  flash  made  them  one 
Forever  —  in  all  worlds.     A  voice  then  told 
How,  on  a  certain  night,  Wat,  James,  and  John, 


12  CITY   POEMS. 

Saw  in  the  moonlight  park  three  giddy  girls 
Mingling  with  their  own  shadows  in  the  dance : 
John  gave  a  cry,  each  darted  like  a  bird, 
Leaving  a  wake  of  laughter  as  she  flew. 
Flushed  with  the   chase,   'mid  laughter-smothered 

shrieks, 

Wat  robbed  a  ruffled  struggler  of  a  kiss. 
Poor  Wat  —  once  proud  as  Chanticleer  that  struts 
Among  his  dames  ;  faint  challenged,  claps  his  wings 
And  crows  defiance  to  the  distant  farms  — 
Now  meekly  sits  beneath  a  shrewish  voice, 
With  children  round  his  knee.     We  spoke  of  him 
Who  drew  sweet  Mary  Hawthorne  into  shame : 
We  could  remember  that  for  many  years, 
With  her  blithe  smile  and  gleam  of  golden  hair, 
She  like  a  candle  lit  her  father's  hearth, 
Making  the  old  man  glad.  —  Now  long  rank  grass 
Hides  a  neglected  grave.     Then  all  at  once 
Discourse  burst  from  its  melancholy  weeds, 
As  brilliant  as  a  spangled  dancing-girl : 
Each  pelted  each  with  quip  and  raillery  ; 
And  when  from  laughing  lips  a  jest  broke  loose, 
The  pack  of  wits  opened  in  loud  pursuit, 
And  ran  it  to  the  death.     Uprose  my  Dream 
From  its  dim  lair  —  for  somehow,  in  my  mind, 
As  the  deserted  East  with  mournful  eyes 
Stands  far  back,  gazing  on  the  glowing  West, 


HORTON.  13 

Death  ever  looks  on  joy.     "  Ere  long,"  I  thought, 

"  Great  Death  will  hallow  all  these  flippant  lips, 

And  make  each  poor  face  awful.     Truest  tears 

Will  not  seem  wasted  when  they  fall  on  them. 

0  Father,  what  is  Death  ?    We  sport  at  eve, 

A  playmate's  lips  grow  pale,  the  game  stands  still, 

He  goes  away  in  silence  ;  as  we  gaze, 

A  trembling  sigh  is  loosened  from  our  lips, 

Like  to  the  long  vibration  in  the  air 

After  a  spire  has  struck  the  hour  of  one. 

We  sit  together  at  a  rich  man's  feast, 

When,  as  if  beckoned  by  an  unseen  hand, 

The  man  whose  laugh  is  loudest  in  his  cups 

Rises  with  a  wild  face,  and  goes  away 

From  mirth  into  a  shroud  without  a  word. 

With  what  pale  faces,  and  how  still,  they  go  ! 

What  visions  see  they,  and  what  voices  hear  ? 

We  only  know  this  buried  root  of  life 

Holds  still,  it  knows  not  why,  within  its  heart 

A  vague  tradition  of  an  upper  light, 

To  which  it  strives,  and,  dying,  spent  and  foiled, 

It  feebly  feels  it  should  have  borne  a  flower 

'Neath  some  propitious  heaven.     Fools,  we  dwell 

Within  bleak  walls  of  death,  and  when  we  hide 

Them  with  this  wretched  tapestry  of  life, 

We  dream  that  they  are  not."     A  hand  was  laid 


14  CITY   POEMS. 

Upon  my  shoulder  ;  Harry's  laughing  face, 
Filled  with  his  mischievous  and  merry  eyes, 
Was  thrust  in  mine.  He  slapped  me  —  "Rouse 

thee,  man  ! 

The  hour  is  striking,  and  your  dinner  waits. 
What  is  the  precious  subject  of  your  thoughts  ?  " 
"  My  thoughts  ?  —  The  charitable  snow  which  cools 
A  hot  volcano's  lips  ;  the  nurse  that  takes 
Alike  the  crying  and  the  crowing  babe, 
And  stills  them  with  a  kiss.77     We  all  arose  ; 
The  emptying  warehouses  had  filled  the  street 
With  a  broad  stream  ;  from  passage,  lane,  and  court, 
Gushed  tributary  rills.     We  struggled  out, 
And  soon  were  lost  and  mingled  in  the  tide  ; 
Within  an  hour  the  streets  again  were  brimmed 
With  the  returning  flow. 

Again  we  sat, 

When  bright-eyed  Harry  cried,  "  How  Time  doth  fly  ! 
March  blustered  yesterday,  to-day  the  winds 
Are  ruffling  July's  roses,  ere  the  morn 
October  smites  the  forests  into  gold. 
Yet  there  is  something  good  in  every  time  : 
Winter  with  breath  like  incense,  glittering  beard 
Of  icicles,  enwrapt  in  sheet  of  snow, 
Is  warm  at  heart,  as  in  the  harvest-fields 
Bare  Autumn,  red  with  sun. 


HORTON.  15 

CHARLES. 

And  kindlier,  too  : 

Hear  his  great  fires,  see  how  his  bleak  old  face 
Glows  ruddy  through  the  steam  of  fragrant  punch. 
Can  pensive  Spring,  a  snowdrop  in  his  hand, 
A  solitary  lark  above  his  head, 
Laugh  like  the  jovial  sinner  in  his  cups  ? 
I  vote  for  Winter  !     Why,  you  know  the  "  Crown," 
The  rows  of  pewter  winking  in  the  light, 
The  mighty  egg-flip  at  the  sanded  bar, 
The  nine-pins,  skittles,  silent  dominos, 
The  bellied  landlord  with  his  purple  head, 
Like  a  red  cabbage  on  December  morn 
Crusted  with  snow.     His  buxom  daughter  Bess  — 
A  dahlia,  not  a  rosebud  —  she  who  bears 
The  foaming  porter  to  the  guests,  and  laughs 
The  loudest  at  their  wit.     Can  any  Summer 
Build  you  a  nest  like  that  ? 

JAMES. 

Oft  at  night, 

Weary  with  beating  the  black  Calder  streams, 
I  dropped  into  your  cosey  paradise. 
Last  week  poor  Horton  died,  who  sat  therein 
As  constant  as  a  saint  within  his  niche. 
I  saw  him  often,  heard  his  glorious  talk, 
But  ere  the  midnight  grew  into  the  morn, 


16  CITY   POEMS. 

He  seemed  a  mighty  angel  sent  from  God 
Standing  before  us  —  drunk  ;  a  sinful  song 
Staining  his  radiant  lips.     I  often  sat 
At  those  wild  drinking  bouts,  which  seemed  divine 
In  a  great  flash  of  wit — and  rose  next  morn, 
Throat  like  the  parched  Sahara,  and  each  ear 
Loud  as  a  cotton-mill.     The  o'er-spurred  jade 
Fell  'neath  the  rider,  and,  like  all  the  world, 
I  found  too  late  the  price  of  loud  delights  — 
Honey  in  which  the  bees  have  left  their  stings. 

MAX. 

Ah !  he  was  brightest  at  the  noon  of  night. 
His  mind  by  day  was  like  a  common  dell, 
Through  which  the  clown  goes  whistling  with  his 

cart; 

You  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  more 
Than  in  a  thousand  places  that  you  knew : 
But  with  the  night,  there  stole  from  every  leaf, 
Where  they  lay  coiled  in  sleep,  dim  troops  of  sylphs, 
Fays,  and  all  frolic  shapes,  and  'neath  the  moon 
Stood  Queen  Titania  and  her  fairy  court. 
It  is  the  proudest  memory  of  my  youth, 
That  I  was  his  familiar,  and  beloved, 
And  knew  his  stream  of  life  from  fount  to  sea. 
Hope  flew  before  him  like  a  setting  sun  ; 
And  as  he  smiled  on  realms  of  rosy  gold, 


IIORTON.  17 

From  out  the  heaven  there  fell  a  desolate  night, 
Filled  with  the  welter  of  the  lonely  sea, 
"With  wind  and  spray  in  his  unsheltered  hair. 
I  kept  the  key  of  his  locked  heart  for  years  — 
Could  ope  it  when  I  chose.     He  loved  not  Song 
With  that  most  pure  and  undivided  love 
Which  only  wins  her.     Song  fled  on  before  ; 
He  followed.     Pleasure,  naked  to  the  waist, 
With  high-flushed  cheeks  and  loose  dishevelled  hair, 
Flung  herself  'cross  his  path  ;  she  clasped  his  knees  ; 
He  saw  her  beauty,  and  he  was  undone  — 
His  strong  heart  melted.     It  was  never  his, 
That  terriblest  of  virtues,  Truthfulness  ; 
That  pure,  high  Constancy  which  flies  right  on, 
As  swerveless  as  a  bullet  to  its  mark ; 
Patience,  that  with  a  weary  smile  can  bear 
A  load  that  crushes  weak  complaint  to  earth  — 
Patience,  that  eats  the  ripened  ears,  while  Haste 
Battens  upon  the  green.     Yet  worth  he  had, 
And  strove,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to  turn 
This  smoke  of  life  to  clear  poetic  flame ; 
To  put  a  something  of  celestial  light 
Round  the  familiar  face  of  every-day. 
He  plunged  from  off  this  crumbling  shoal  of  Time, 
Struck  for  the  coast  of  Fame  —  with  stiffened  limbs 
Went  down  in  sight  of  land. 
2 


18  CITY  POEMS. 

JOHN. 

I  saw  him  once, 

And,  by  my  faith,  he  talked  us  all  asleep. 
The  only  things  that  struck  me  were  his  eyes, 
That  with  their  brightness  held  you  from  his  face  ; 
The  thought  stood  in  them  ere  't  was  spoken ;  Wit 
Laughed  on  you  from  the  windows  ere  she  danced 
Out  on  you  from  the  door. 

HARRY. 

I  Ve  heard  men  speak 
Of  Horton  with  such  pity  in  their  tones, 
That  I  conceived  he  had  been  cruelly  hurt 
By  fortune  in  his  youth. 

MAX. 

As  I  have  said, 

I  knew  him  as  myself,  and  loved  him  more, 
And  so  my  knowledge  is  more  intimate 
Than  yours,  or  yours,  or  any's  in  the  world. 
Love  will  dwell  daily  with  Indifference, 
Sleep  in.  one  room  and  at  one  table  sit, 
And  never  speak.     Love  is  but  known  to  Love. 
For  years  his  heart  was  darkened  like  a  grave 
By  a  sepulchral  yew.     While  yet  a  child, 
He  had  a  playmate  in  his  sunny  sports ; 
Inseparable  they  were  as  sun  and  shade 


nORTON.  19 

From  childhood's  tender  sheath  there  burst  at  once 

A  lily-woman  —  sweetly  grave  with  thoughts 

Till  now  unknown  ;  made  silent  by  a  heart 

So  full  and  strange,  that  at  a  passing  tone, 

The  noiseless  falling  of  an  autumn  leaf, 

It  trembled  into  tears.     I  often  thought, 

In  the  prophetic  sorrow  of  her  face, 

Her  wan  pathetic  smiles,  more  sad  than  tears, 

I  gazed  upon  the  countenance  which  awed 

The  herdsman  on  the  dark  Judean  hills 

When  Jephtha's  daughter  passed.  And  so  she  walked 

Vestured  in  silence  ;  wheresoe'er  she  went 

Loud  voices  drooped,  her  beauty  carried  peace 

Into  rude  Discord's  heart  —  and  had  she  bent 

Above  a  soldier  from  the  bloody  trench, 

The  fleeting  spirit  would  have  left  a  smile 

Behind  it,  on  the  face. 

One  summer  day 

He  lay  upon  a  tower  in  leafy  Kent 
Watching  a  lazy  river  ;  glorious  leagues 
Of  woods  yet  gleaming  with  a  falling  shower, 
O'er  which  a  rainbow  strode  ;  a  red- tiled  town 
Set  in  a  tender  film  of  azure  smoke, 
And  here  and  there  upon  the  little  heights 
A  windmill  turning  its  preposterous  arms 
Within  the  silent  noon  ;  the  line  of  sea 
That  closed  the  whole.     Upon  the  wall  he  lay, 


20  CITY   POEMS. 

Without  a  wish  or  trouble  in  the  world. 

Her  presence  filled  the  universe  like  light, 

And,  like  an  indolent  emperor,  he  lolled 

Upon  a  couch  of  happiness  and  love. 

So  when  the  sun  sank  flaming  in  the  west, 

He  wrote,  with  a  fond  smile  upon  his  lips 

(His  marriage-day  was  laughing  in  his  face), 

"  The  third  night  hence  I  start,  —  that  summer  night 

When  you  are  wakened  by  an  ache  of  bliss 

To  some  great  happiness,  and  know  not  what 

Until  the  truth  leaps  up,  think,  dearest,  think 

That  I  am  flying  to  you  through  the  night 

At  sixty  miles  an  hour  —  and  that  my  heart 

Outflies  the  flying  train." 

The  fatal  sun 

Sucked  vapors  from  the  marsh.     From  morn  till  eve 
The  streets  were  huddled  in  a  yellow  fog, 
Through  which  the  lamps  burned  beamlessly  and  dim. 
'Mid  household  duties  sat  she  hour  by  hour 
With  eyes  that  fed  on  something  far  away ; 
A  half-smile  hovering  round  her  happy  lips 
Like  a  bright  butterfly  around  a  flower, 
Touching,  yet  settling  not.     The  hour  drew  near  — 
Her  bliss  disturbed  her  as  she  sat  alone  — 
She  sought  relief  in  friends,  and  rose  at  last 
With  fond  and  hurried  heart.     They  went  with  her. 
"  Don't  take  the  river,  Cousin,  'tis  so  dark." 


HORTON.  21 

"It  is  the  shortest  way  —  good-night,  good-night. " 

They  plead,  she  broke  from  them,  they  called  to  her, 

She  tossed  a  laughing  answer  from  the  dark. 

The  girls  returned  through  thick  mist-blinded  streets, 

And  sat  'mid  music  in  delighted  rooms, 

While  she  groped  weeping  in  night's  foggy  heart 

Her  father,  mother,  and  the  new-arrived, 

Sat  in  a  happy  knot.     His  coming  stirred 

The  constant  fire  of  love  within  their  hearts, 

Which  crackled  and  blazed  higher.     Much  he  talked 

Of  London,  of  its  streets,  its  bridges,  crowds ; 

St.  Paul's,  the  broad  moon  sailing  o'er  the  dome  ; 

The  rich-carved  Abbey  with  its  thousand  frets 

And  pinnacles,  religious  with  the  dead  ; 

Of  the  brave  spirits  who  go  up  to  woo 

That  terrible  city  whose  neglect  is  death, 

Whose  smile  is  fame  ;  the  prosperous  one  who  sits 

Sole  in  the  summer  sun,  the  crowd  who  die 

Unmentioned,  as  a  wave  which  forms  and  breaks 

On  undiscovered  shores.     Hour  passed  on  hour, 

And  gradual  each  apprehensive  lip 

Grew  silent  with  concern  ;  then,  as  they  sat, 

Like  fern-leaves  troubled  by  a  sudden  wind, 

Their  hearts  were  shaken  by  a  speechless  fear  ; 

Each  read  the  terror  in  the  other's  face. 


22  CITY   POEMS. 

They  searched  with  lights,  they  madly  called  her 

name  — 

Night  heard,  and,  conscience-stricken,  held  its  breath, 
And  listened  wild.     At  last  in  the  bleared  morn, 
They  saw  a  something  white  within  the  stream  — 
He  raised  his  drowned  bride  in  distracted  arms 

A  boat  with  a  sweet  freight  of  singing  girls, 

At  rosy  eve,  when  oars  are  still,  will  pause, 

Then  float  down  with  the  stream.     His  merriest  talk 

Flagged  oft,  and,  unpropelled,  would  ever  turn 

Into  the  current  of  his  soul  which  set 

Constant  toward  his  grief.     One  afternoon 

We  wandered  forth  toward  the  Haven's  Hill, 

Whence  we  might  watch  the  sunset  fill  the  vale. 

A  silent  sea  of  plenty  laved  its  feet ; 

We  climbed  with  laughter  up  its  pleasant  sides ; 

But,  when  we  reached  its  lone  and  heathy  head, 

We  found  it  haunted  by  a  querulous  bird, 

Aye  wheeling  round  and  round. 

Gloom,  like  a  curtain,  dropped  from  brow  to  chin. 

We  saw  the  tawny  valley,  here  and  there 

Sheaf-dotted  fields  ;  a  silent  string  of  carts 

Creeping  along  the  whitened  country  road  ; 

Contented  cottage  smoke  ;  a  shot,  and,  lo  ! 

Into  the  sunset  the  disturbed  rooks 

Arose  in  noisy  clouds  from  trees  that  kept 


IIORTON.  23 

A  great  man's  house  a  secret.     He  did  not  speak  ; 
I  felt  that  something  hung  upon  his  heart. 
When  the  great  sunset  burned  itself  away, 
There  lay  within  the  sleepy  evening  sky 
Dark  purple  slips  of  cloud,  and  shallow  pools 
Of  drowsy  and  most  melancholy  light. 
We  sauntered  homeward  by  the  clacking  mill  • 
Back  from  the  road  we  saw  the  ragged  wall, 
The  broken  windows  in  the  haunted  house, 
And  the  old  rooks'  nests  in  the  ruined  elms : 
Silence  grew  pain.     Sudden  the  harvest  moon 
Stood  at  our  backs,  and  threw  long  spears  of  light 
Before  us  'mong  the  shades  ;  at  that  he  drew 
The  sluice  of  silence,  and  his  life  rushed  forth  — 
Its  grief,  despair,  anguish,  and  clinging  hope. 
Eis  heart  was  not,  as  men  conceived,  a  fair 
Oi  clowns  and  jugglers,  gongs  and  blaring  brass, 
Bu-,  a  lone  place  of  tombs  and  cypresses, 
Asleep  in  silence  'neath  the  moon  of  death. 
He  was  a  broken  and  time-crumbled  tower, 
With  sere  grass  sighing  in  the  evening  wind, 
Eound  which  a  pale  ghost  flits. 

JAMES. 

And  then  his  song  — 
You  used  to  like  it,  Harry  :  give  it  now. 


24  CITY   POEMS. 

HARRY. 

On  the  Sabbath-day, 

Through  the  church-yard  old  and  gray, 

Over  the  crisp  and  yellow  leaves,  I  held  my  rustling 

way; 
And  amid  the  words  of  mercy,  falling  on  my  soul 

like  balms, 
'Mid  the  gorgeous  storms  of  music  —  in  the  mellow 

organ-calms, 
;Mid  the  upward-streaming  prayers,  and  the  rich  and 

solemn  psalms, 
I  stood  careless,  Barbara. 


My  heart  was  otherwhere 

While  the  organ  shook  the  air, 

And  the  priest,  with  outspread  hands,  blessed  the 

people  with  a  prayer  ; 
But,  when  rising  to  go  homeward,  with  a  mild  and 

saint-like  shine 
Gleamed  a  face  of  airy  beauty  with  its  heaveily 

eyes  on  mine  — 
Gleamed  and  vanished  in  a  moment  —  0,  that  face 

was  surely  thine 
Out  of  heaven,  Barbara  ! 

0,  pallid,  pallid  face  ! 
0,  earnest  eyes  of  grace  ! 


HORTON.  25 

When  last  I  saw  thee,  dearest,  it  was  in  another 
place. 

You  came  running  forth  to  meet  me  with  my  love- 
gift  on  your  wrist : 

The  flutter  of  a  long  white  dress,  then  all  was  lost 
in  mist  — 

A  purple  stain  of  agony  was  on  the  mouth  I  kissed, 

That  wild  morning,  Barbara ! 

I  searched,  in  my  despair, 
Sunny  noon  and  midnight  air  ; 

I  could  not  drive  away  the  thought  that  you  were 
lingering  there. 

0  many  and  many  a  winter  night  I  sat  when  you 

were  gone, 
My  worn  face  buried  in  my  hands,  beside  the  fire 

alone  — 
Within  the  dripping  church-yard,  the  rain  plashing 

on  your  stone, 
You  were  sleeping,  Barbara  I 

;Mong  angels,  do  you  think 
Of  the  precious  golden  link 

1  clasped  around  your  happy  arm  while  sitting  by 

yon  brink  ? 

Or  when  that  night  of  gliding  dance,  of  laughter  and 
guitars, 


26  CITY   POEMS. 

Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watched,  through 

latticed  bars, 
The  silent  midnight  heaven  creeping  o'er  us  with  its 

stars, 
Till  the  day  broke,  Barbara  ? 

In  the  years  I  've  changed  ; 

Wild  and  far  my  heart  hath  ranged, 

And  many  sins  and  errors  now  have  been  on  me 

avenged ; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful,  whatsoever  good  I 

lacked : 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  still  hangs  that  love 

intact  — 
Your  love   the   trembling  rainbow,  I  the  reckless 

cataract  — 
Still  I  love  you,  Barbara  ! 

Yet,  love,  I  am  unblest ; 

With  many  doubts  opprest, 

I  wander  like  a  desert  wind,  without  a  place  of  rest. 

Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry 

shore, 
The  hunger  of  my  soul  were  stilled,  for  Death  hath 

told  you  more 
Than  the  melancholy  world  doth  know ;  things  deeper 

than  all  lore 
You  could  teach  me,  Barbara  1 


HORTON.  27 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain ! 

You  will  never  come  again  ! 

There  droops  upon  the  dreary  hills  a  mournful  friage 

of  rain ; 
The  gloaming  closes  slowly  round,  loud  winds  are  in 

the  tree, 
Round  selfish  shores  forever  moans  the  hurt  and 

wounded  sea, 
There  is  no  rest  upon  the  earth,  peace  is  with  Death 

and  thee, 
Barbara ! 

MAX. 

I  thank  you  for  your  silence  —  for  his  sake. 

CHARLES. 
Why,  he  has  told  his  story  in  his  song  ! 

MAX. 

Better  than  I  can.     Through  that  window  look 
Into  the  ruined  house. 

CHARLES. 

I  picture  Art 

As  some  great  captive  in  a  gloomy  cell, 
Who  strives  in  vain  to  satisfy  himself, 
By  carving  every  inch  of  wall  and  roof 
With  images  of  former  state,  and  shapes 


28  CITY   POEMS. 

That  haunt  him  with  their  beauty  ;  and,  unsought, 
There  starts  beneath  his  chisel  —  saddening  all, 
Freezing  the  lovely  groups  of  singing  girls, 
Bursting  through  every  bunch  of  leaf  and  flower  — 
Strange  images  of  grief. 

JAMES. 

Love,  hope,  and  joy, 
Familiar  things  enough  to  you  and  me, 
Take  a  strange  glory  from  the  poet's  mind : 
The  white  and  common  daylight,  streaming  through 
A  rich  cathedral  window  dim  with  saints, 
Falls  on  the  clasped  hands  of  a  stony  knight 
In  palpitating  crimson  ;  and  the  gust 
That  rudely  smites  the  ^Eolian  harp  departs 
In  melancholy  music.     Life  is  the  soil, 
And  song  the  flower  which  — 

JOHN. 

Stop,  for  Heaven's  sake,  — 

All  that  has  been  said  a  hundred  thousand  times, 
And  will  be  said  as  often  when  you  're  dead. 
Now,  when  we  cannot  do  a  noble  deed, 
Let  us  be  silent.     In  larger-hearted  times 
Men  stood  with  Nature  face  to  face,  and  wrought  — 
Such  <ove  and  passion  in  each  fervid  stroke  — 
Their  glory,  our  despair.     To  us  are  left 


HORTON.  29 

But  empty  wonder,  admiration  vain. 

Eternal  Nature  in  her  pomp  goes  past ; 

These  giants  stand  up  in  the  very  front, 

And  hide  her  from  us  ;  we  but  guess  the  sight 

From  their  adoring  murmurs.     We  live  on  them, 

Feed  on  their  thoughts  ;  each  of  us  strives  to  speak 

The  finest  words  about  them.     Poor  fungi  of  a  day 

On  trunks  of  greatness  !     To  our  graves  we  walk 

In  the  thick  footprints  of  departed  men. 

Life's  fire,  however  high  or  low  it  burns,  — 

To  cheer  a  cottage,  or  to  fright  a  realm,  — 

Goes  out  in  worthless  ashes  at  the  last. 

0  I  villanous  Custom  makes  the  muse's  song 

Stale  as  the  common  highway  ;  steals  the  gold 

From  Julia's  tresses,  which  once  lit  the  world ; 

Makes  dear  friends,  smiling  in  each  other's  face, 

Deem  each  a  tiresome  fool ;  the  preacher  crying 

Of  death  and  judgment,  —  from  which  we  are  divided 

But  by  this  thin  partition  of  a  breath,  — 

A  pleasant  buzzing  in  a  drowsy  ear 

In  a  soft-cushioned  pew. 

HARRY. 

I  '11  prophesy  — 

Who  '11  say  me  nay  ?  —  that  in  the  next  Review, 
As  far  off  from  his  subject  as  he  can, 
Running  a  mile  that  he  may  leap  a  yard, 


SO  CITY   POEMS. 

Your  critic  starts  off  thus  :  —  "  'T  is  not  to  sing 
The  dance  of  stars,  the  lovely  year  of  flowers, 
From  the  pure  snow-drop  peeping  from  the  mould 
Yet  wet  with  wintry  rains,  to  tiger-lilies 
Fierce  in  their  beauty,  and  tall  hollyhocks 
On  fire  through  all  their  length,  the  poet  comes. 
They  say  that  song  is  laid  in  Byron's  grave  ! 
As  long  as  lightning  glimmers  on  the  hills, 
Song  shall  be  heard  ;  as  long  as  fields  are  green, 
And^skies  are  blue,  and  woman's  face  is  fair." 
Now,  there  is  nothing  very  new  in  this  ; 
As  well  remind  a  man  with  cheek  and  nose 
Blue  with  the  east  wind,  that  the  day  is  cold. 
But  lo  !  he  rises  to  a  higher  mood  :  — 
"  Life  is  enriched  and  multiplied  by  song  : 
Song  re-creates  the  people  of  the  past ; 
For  one  immortal  moment  we  are  they, 
And  one  blood  beats  in  all.     How  dear  to  man 
Is  aught  of  man  !     Old  Time,  who  frets  to  dust 
The  princely  circumstance  and  cloth  of  gold, 
Can  never  filch  the  blush  from  Juliet's  cheek, 
Or  stale  the  rapture  of  bold  Romeo's  kiss  — 
We  touch  her  lips  with  him.     The  workman  toils 
At  his  rude  craft,  goes  to  his  low-roofed  home, 
Sits  at  his  evening  meal ;  the  poet  enters, 
Clothed  in  the  strange,  sweet  light  which  is  his  gift 
The  poor  man  starts  ;  he  has  lived  all  his  days 


HORTON.  31 

With  beauty,  and  with  grandeur,  and  with  power, 
Unrecognized  till  now."     Bald  talk  like  this 
(Though,  I  confess  it,  not  so  neatly  said) 
Besets  us  everywhere  ;  if  well  for  once  — 
Repeated,  ;t  is  as  if  we  supped  with  Jones, 
Next  eve  with  Brown,  and  found  the  self-same  roast 
Gracing  both  tables,  —  which  it  sometimes  does, 
Hired  from  the  butcher  in  the  other  street. 

CHARLES. 

With  what  a  will  these  fellows  cuff,  maltreat, 
And  pound  the  innocent  air  ! 

JAMES. 

Is  it  not  strange 

That  Horton,  filled  with  purifying  sorrow, 
Should  err  so  far  ? 

JOHN. 

Most  wondrous  —  in  a  world 
Where  every  sleek  and  purple-visaged  priest 
Declaims  'gainst  luxury,  and  dexterous  men 
Change  but  their  vices,  and  are  virtuous  ! 
He  —  't  is  the  common  fashion  of  his  kind  — 
Put  what  he  had  of  goodness  in  his  verse, 
And  left  none  for  his  life.     He  knew  his  game  :  — 
Stuff  your  shop-window  thickly  with  your  goods  ; 


32  CITY   POEMS. 

The  world  ne'er  marks  the  empty  shelves  behind. 
Grief  proudlier  dwells  in  sounding  lines  than  in 
A  faithful  heart.     What  beauty  would  not  choose 
To  sit  and  smile  within  a  balcony, 
Full  in  the  seeing  of  the  public  eye, 
Rather  than  in  a  hut  ? 

MAX. 

You  do  him  wrong  ; 
His  errors  rose  from  no  ill-biassed  soul, 
Nor  appetite  depraved.     The  finer  nerve, 
The  mournful  wisdom  gathered  by  an  eye 
That  saw  the  withered  autumn  in  the  fruit 
Glowing  upon  the  bough,  were  more  to  blame. 
Death  looked  upon  him  through  the  eyes  of  Love  ; 
No  mercy  veiled  for  him  those  dreadful  orbs  ; 
And  often,  to  escape  their  silent  gaze, 
He  hid  in  Riot's  arms.     We  often  see 
Powers  left  unused,  or  in  their  uses  lost. 
The  ponderous  axe  leans  'gainst  the  idle  wall 
Till  rust  consumes  it ;  and  the  invisible  edge, 
That  could  divide  the  weightless  gossamer, 
Nor  shake  a  trembling  dew-drop  from  its  threads, 
Must  hew  the  rock.     Whene'er  Apollo  draws 
The  arrow  thirsting  for  the  Python's  blood 
Home  to  the  quivering  head,  his  flashing  limbs 
Are  palsied  by  a  touch.     The  heavens  seem 


IIORTON.  33 

To  mar  as  wilfully  their  creature  man 
As  one  who  limns  a  face,  on  which  the  world 
Could  stand  at  gaze  cheated  of  pain  and  time, 
Then  lets,  before  the  smiling  hues  are  dry, 
His  careless  sleeve  slur  all  as  off  he  goes. 
Nature,  who  makes  the  perfect  rose  and  bird, 
Has  never  made  the  full  and  perfect  man. 
In  every  worthiness  there  is  a  flaw, 
That,  like  a  crack  across  a  mirror's  face, 
Impairs  its  value.     Cunningly,  she  lets 
Nothing  have  knowledge  of  its  own  defect : 
To  keep  us  living  she  must  cozen  us. 
The  dun  toad  panting  in  the  cool  of  eve, 
The  eagle  bathing  in  the  bursting  dawn, 
Are  each  content  alike.     Without  these  toys,  — 
Ambition,  pleasure,  wealth,  opinion,  love, 
Which  fill  our  eyes,  and  hide  us  from  ourselves,  — 
Like  lonely  children  we  should  die  with  fright 
At  utter  nothingness.     His  muse  had  breath, 
And  loved  so  well  this  old  familiar  earth, 
She  ne'er  desired  to  walk  in  other  stars, 
Nor  dwell  'neath  ampler  seasons  ;  and  his  verse, 
Like  a  rich  marriage  with  its  minstrelsy, 
Or  Neptune  with  a  sound  of  weltering  waves, 
Had  still  a  lordly  march.     Had  he  but  lived  — 
Yet,  very  vain  and  fruitless  is  the  wish  ! 
Death  holds  up  in  his  hand  the  lamp  by  which 
3 


34  CITY   POEMS. 

We  note  the  prostrate  strength,  and  guess  what  all 

At  strain  could  reach.   He  stood  so  high,  there  seemed 

Between  his  footing  and  the  immortal  mount 

A  single  step  :  however  slight  the  space, 

It  was  to  him  a  gulf  impassable, 

And  wide  as  death.     Yet  'tis  a  loving  thought, 

Had  Fate  not  so  untimely  reaped  the  field, 

Its  hasty  crop  of  poppies  had  been  drowned 

In  heavy  ears  of  wheat. 

ARTHUR. 

A  friend  of  mine, 

At  whose  rich  table  Horton  often  sat, 
When  fond  men  dreamed  they  saw  around  his  head 
The  apparition  of  the  future  light, 
Told  me  he  was  in  spirit  hot  and  quick,  — 
Weak  as  a  flower  that  sways  with  every  wind  ; 
That,  like  the  sensitive  leaf,  his  vanity 
Shrank  from  the  slightest  touch  ;  and  that  he  turned 
From  those  who  loved  him,  and  reproved  him,  too, 
And  found  his  heaven  in  a  tavern's  laugh. 

MAX. 

With  their  own  cotton  may  your  friends  be  choked ! 
0,  'tis  the  crowning  baseness  of  the  fiend 
To  taunt  the  fallen  Eve  !     They  gave  him  wine  ; 
They  pampered,  flattered  him  ;  they  struck  the  light 


HORTON.  35 

In  that  combustible  and  tinder  house  ; 

And,  when  't  was  sheeted  in  devouring  flame, 

They,  in  the  fashion  of  our  dearest  friends, 

Cried  "  Fire  !  "  to  all  the  world.    You  have  a  friend  : 

Touch  your  friend's  heart  with  a  poor  orphan's  cry, 

He  sips  his  wine  unmoved  ;  touch  now  his  purse  — 

Look,  how  he  winces  !     He  is  vital  there. 

0,  rare  to  hear  this  Cotton-bag,  with  soul 

Scarce  saucer-deep,  rate  Horton  for  his  faults  ! 

Had  he  his  heart  one  hour,  within  his  life 

'T  were  like  the  famous  tear  that  Xerxes  shed  — 

The  one  thing  worth  remembering.     So  they  judge 

This  larger  spirit,  fresh  from  Nature's  heart 

As  a  volcano  ;  compound  perilous 

Of  hell  and  heaven,  wrath  and  woman's  tears  I 

He  sank  beneath  them  in  his  passionate  sins ; 

His  goodness  sang  a  skylark  o'er  their  heads, 

And  Heaven  stood  to  hear. 

His  silent  grave 

Rebukes  these  words.     But  let  us  ne'er  forget 
His  errors  darkened  in  the  very  blaze 
And  sunlight  of  his  virtues.     A  slur  of  mire 
Sits  more  conspicuous  on  the  captain's  steel 
Than  on  the  battle-worn  and  dinted  mail 
Of  the  rude  man-at-arms.     His  sin  of  sins 
Was  ne'er  to  be  the  master  of  himself. 
His  heart,  which  should  have  constant  been  to  song,  — 


36  CITY   POEMS. 

True,  as  the  monsoon  breathing  day  and  night 

To  China  and  the  Isles,  —  was  drawn  aside 

By  pomps  and  pleasures  dancing  upon  graves 

To  Vanity's  soft  pipe.     When  erring  man 

Strays  from  his  duty,  Heaven  ever  strives 

To  bring  him  back.     'T  is  writ,  when  Moses  fled, 

And  drowned  remembrance  of  the  groaning  tribes 

In  the  sweet  bleating  of  the  Midian  flocks,  — 

The  hand  which  should  break  Egypt,  sound  asleep 

'Mid  Zipporah's  long  tresses,  —  God  appeared 

Within  the  burning  bush.     Alas  for  him 

Who  cannot  hear  the  voice  I  he  turns  from  Hope, 

And  gives  his  hand  to  Ruin.     The  Muse  disdains 

A  lukewarm  lover.     He  who  could  not  sit 

And  sing  contented  in  a  desert  isle, 

His  audience,  the  mute  trees  and  wandering  winds, 

His  joy,  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  song, 

Should  never  lift  his  voice  'mong  mortal  men. 

The  noble  artist  finds  enough  reward, 

While  the  pure  nymph  is  growing  from  the  stone, 

In  the  sweet  smile  with  which  she  blesses  him 

For  loveliness  and  immortality. 

He  coveted  the  Muse's  smile  ;  but  more 

Earth's  praise  ;  for  Fame's  consummate  fruit,  which 

ne'er 

Has  cooled  the  fever  of  a  living  lip, 
Which  ripens  slowly  through  laborious  years, 


HORTON.  37 

Then,  heavy  with  its  sweetness  and  its  bloom, 

Falls  on  a  grave,  he  could  not  wait ;  so  plucked 

Crude  Reputation's  green  and  bastard  crab, 

Which  set  his  teeth  on  edge.     This  error  soured 

ITis  native  goodness.     Slow  he  fell  from  light, 

And  year  by  year  the  heavens  seemed  further  off, 

And  human  faces  less  divine.     He  died 

With  a  wild  jest ;  't  was  the  last  flash  of  Fame 

Upon  the  blackened  brand.     Was  this  ship  stored 

And  sent  forth  glorious  only  to  enrich 

The  wasteful  waves  ?     0,  surely  to  advance 

The  far  result  which  Heaven  shapes  from  out 

The  multitudinous  clash  and  roar  of  things, 

This  man  might  have  been  used  —  not  thrown  aside, 

As  in  a  loud  and  clanging  tournament, 

A  splintered  lance.     But  Heaven  darkly  works  ; 

A  pale  man  bears  about  a  martyr's  heart, 

And  never  finds  his  fire  ;  while  one  burns  high 

With  a  recanting  soul.     The  patriot's  head 

Wastes  on  a  pole  above  a  gate  of  slaves 

In  sun  and  rain,  while  he  who  only  sought 

The  awful  glitter  of  the  diadem 

Stands  crowned,  with  acclamations  of  the  free 

Rising  like  incense  round  him.     On  the  sands 

Jove  lolls,  and  listens  to  the  sleepy  surge, 

His  right  arm  boltless,  and  that  brow,  whose  frown 

Could  shake  Olympus,  naked  as  the  peak 


38  CITY   POEMS. 

That  fronts  the  sunset ;  while  a  baby-hand 
Clutches  the  thunder.     Yet  through  all  we  know 
This  tangled  skein  is  in  the  hands  of  One 
Who  sees  the  end  from  the  beginning  :  He 
Shall  yet  unravel  all. 

Our  stream  of  talk 

Here  split  in  petty  rills,  which  ran  to  waste 
And  sank  in  silence.     When  that  swallows'  haunt, 
St.  Stephen's,  with  its  showers  of  silvery  chimes, 
Stood  black  against  the  red,  dilated  sun, 
Labor  laid  down  his  tools  and  went  away. 
The   park  was   loud  with   games  ;    clear  laughter, 

shrieks, 

Came  from  the  rings  of  girls  amid  the  trees  ; 
The  cricketers  were  eager  at  their  play ; 
The  stream  was  dotted  with  the  swimmers'  heads  ; 
Gay  boats  flashed  up  and  down.     The  level  sun 
Poured  o'er  the  sward  a  farewell  gush  of  light, 
And  Sport  transfigured  stood  !     I  hurried  on, 
Through  all  the  mirth,  to  where  the  river  ran, 
In  the  gray  evening,  'tween  the  hanging  woods, 
With  a  soul-soothing  murmur.     Seated  there, 
The  darkness  closing  round  me,  I  could  see 
A  lonely  angler  like  a  heron  stand, 
And  hear  the  blackbird  piping  to  the  eve, 


HORTON.  39 

And  smell  the  wild-rose  on  the  dewy  air. 
I  reached  the  park  hours  later,  —  what  a  change  ! 
The  full-moon  filled  the  universal  night ; 
The  stream  ran  white  with  lustre  ;  walks  and  trees 
Threw  their  long  shadows  ;  a  few  kine  lay  dark 
In  lanes  and  squares  of  moonlight ;  far  away 
The  pallid  rim  of  night  was  touched  with  fires  ; 
Stillness  was  deep  as  death.     "  The  noisy  day 
Wheels  into  silence  ;  and  this  wave  of  life, 
Crowned  with  its  fretting  foam,  subsides  at  last 
On  shores  without  a  sound.     And  this  our  Time  — 
With  thrones  tyrannic  girt  by  seas  of  steel ; 
Wild  nations  starting  up  from  sleep  to  chase 
A  dream  of  liberty  through  blood  and  fire  ; 
White  faces  down  in  dungeons  cursing  kings  ; 
Battle,  and  wintry  siege,  and  frozen  hosts  — 
Will  sink  and  lose  itself  in  utter  peace 
Like  water  spilt  on  sand.     And  History, 
A  mournful  follower  in  the  track  of  man, 
Whose  path  is  over  ruin  and  the  grave, 
May  linger  for  a  moment  in  this  place 
Beside  a  worn  inscription,  and  be  sad." 

Across  the  moonlight  spaces  and  the  shades 
I  walked  in  silence,  through  pale  silver  streets, 
Athwart  a  desolate  and  moon-bleached  square, 


40  CITY   POEMS. 

Over  a  white  and  solitary  bridge, 
Until  I  reached  my  home.     I  oped  the  door, 
And  ere  it  closed,  I  heard  a  distant  spire 
Start  in  its  sleep,  and  murmur  of  an  hour. 


GLASGOW. 

SING,  Poet,  't  is  a  merry  world  ; 

That  cottage  smoke  is  rolled  and  curled 

In  sport,  that  every  moss 
Is  happy,  every  inch  of  soil ;  — 
Before  me  runs  a  road  of  toil 

With  my  grave  cut  across. 
Sing,  trailing  showers  and  breezy  downs  — 
/  know  the  tragic  hearts  of  towns. 

City !  I  am  true  son  of  thine  ; 

Ne'er  dwelt  I  where  great  mornings  shine 

Around  the  bleating  pens  ; 
Ne'er  by  the  rivulets  I  strayed, 
And  ne'er  upon  my  childhood  weighed 

The  silence  of  the  glens. 
Instead  of  shores  where  ocean  beats, 
I  hear  the  ebb  and  flow  of  streets. 

Black  Labor  draws  his  weary  waves 
Into  their  secret-moaning  caves  ; 
But,  with  the  morning  light, 


42  CITY   POEMS. 

That  sea  again  will  overflow 
With  a  long,  weary  sound  of  woe, 

Again  to  faint  in  night. 
Wave  am  I  in  that  sea  of  woes, 
Which,  night  and  morning,  ebbs  and  flows. 

I  dwelt  within  a  gloomy  court, 
Wherein  did  never  sunbeam  sport ; 

Yet  there  my  heart  was  stirred  — 
My  very  blood  did  dance  and  thrill, 
When  on  my  narrow  window-sill 

Spring  lighted  like  a  bird. 
Poor  flowers  I  I  watched  them  pine  for  weeks, 
With  leaves  as  pale  as  human  cheeks. 

Afar,  one  summer,  I  was  borne  ; 
Through  golden  vapors  of  the  morn 

I  heard  the  hills  of  sheep  : 
I  trod  with  a  wild  ecstasy 
The  bright  fringe  of  the  living  sea : 

And  on  a  ruined  keep 
I  sat,  and  watched  an  endless  plain 
Blacken  beneath  the  gloom  of  rain. 

0,  fair  the  lightly-sprinkled  waste, 
O'er  which  a  laughing  shower  has  raced  ! 
0,  fair  the  April  shoots  I 


GLASGOW.  43 

0,  fair  the  woods  on  summer  days, 
While  a  blue  hyacinthine  haze 

Is  dreaming  round  the  roots  I 
In  thee,  0  City  I  I  discern 
Another  beauty,  sad  and  stern. 

Draw  thy  fierce  streams  of  blinding  ore, 
Smite  on  a  thousand  anvils,  roar 

Down  to  the  harbor-bars  ; 
Smoulder  in  smoky  sunsets,  flare 
On  rainy  nights,  with  street  and  square 

Lie  empty  to  the  stars. 
From  terrace  proud  to  alley  base 
I  know  thee  as  my  mother's  face. 

When  sunset  bathes  thee  in  his  gold, 
In  wreaths  of  bronze  thy  sides  are  rolled, 

Thy  smoke  is  dusky  fire  ; 
And,  from  the  glory  round  thee  poured, 
A  sunbeam  like  an  angel's  sword 

Shivers  upon  a  spire. 

Thus  have  I  watched  thee,  Terror !  Dream  ! 
While  the  blue  Night  crept  up  the  stream. 

The  wild  train  plunges  in  the  hills, 
lie  shrieks  across  the  midnight  rills  ; 
Streams  through  the  shifting  glare, 


44  CITY   POEMS. 

The  roar  and  flap  of  foundry  fires, 

That  shake  with  light  the  sleeping  shires  ; 

And  on  the  moorlands  bare 
He  sees  afar  a  crown  of  light 
Hang  o'er  thee  in  the  hollow  night. 

At  midnight,  when  thy  suburbs  lie 
As  silent  as  a  noonday  sky 

When  larks  with  heat  are  mute, 
I  love  to  linger  on  thy  bridge, 
All  lonely  as  a  mountain  ridge, 

Disturbed  but  by  my  foot ; 
While  the  black  lazy  stream  beneath 
Steals  from  its  far-off  wilds  of  heath. 

And  through  thy  heart,  as  through  a  dream, 
Flows  on  that  black  disdainful  stream  ; 

All  scornfully  it  flows, 
Between  the  huddled  gloom  of  masts, 
Silent  as  pines  unvexed  by  blasts  — 

'Tween  lamps  in  streaming  rows. 
0,  wondrous  sight  I     0,  stream  of  dread  I 
0,  long,  dark  river  of  the  dead ! 

Afar,  the  banner  of  the  year 
Unfurls  :  but  dimly  prisoned  here, 
;T  is  only  when  I  greet 


GLASGOW.  45 

A  dropt  rose  lying  in  my  way, 
A  butterfly  that  flutters  gay 

Athwart  the  noisy  street, 
I  know  the  happy  Summer  smiles 
Around  thy  suburbs,  miles  on  miles. 

'T  were  neither  paean  now,  nor  dirge, 
The  flash  and  thunder  of  the  surge 

On  flat  sands  wide  and  bare  ; 
No  haunting  joy  or  anguish  dwells 
In  the  green  light  of  sunny  dells, 

Or  in  the  starry  air. 
Alike  to  me  the  desert  flower, 
The  rainbow  laughing  o'er  the  shower. 

While  o'er  thy  walls  the  darkness  sails, 
I  lean  against  the  churchyard  rails  ; 

Up  in  the  midnight  towers 
The  belfried  spire,  the  street  is  dead, 
I  hear  in  silence  over  head 

The  clang  of  iron  hours  : 
It  moves  me  not  —  I  know  her  tomb 
Is  yonder  in  the  shapeless  gloom. 

All  raptures  of  this  mortal  breath, 
Solemnities  of  life  and  death, 
Dwell  in  thy  noise  alone : 


46  CITY   POEMS. 

Of  me  thou  hast  become  a  part  — 
Some  kindred  with  my  human  heart 

Lives  in  thy  streets  of  stone  ; 
For  we  have  been  familiar  more 
Than  galley-slave  and  weary  oar. 

The  beech  is  dipped  in  wine  ;  the  shower 
Is  burnished  ;  on  the  swinging  flower 

The  latest  bee  doth  sit. 
The  low  sun  stares  through  dust  of  gold, 
And  o'er  the  darkening  heath  and  wold 

The  large  ghost-moth  doth  flit. 
In  every  orchard  Autumn  stands, 
With  apples  in  his  golden  hands. 

But  all  these  sights  and  sounds  are  strange  ; 
Then  wherefore  from  thee  should  I  range  ? 

Thou  hast  my  kith  and  kin  ; 
My  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood  brave  ; 
Thou  hast  that  unforgotten  grave 

Within  thy  central  din. 
A  sacredness  of  love  and  death 
Dwells  in  thy  noise  and  smoky  breath. 


SQUIRE    MAURICE. 

I  THREW  from  off  me  yesterday 
The  dull  life  I  am  doomed  to  wear  — 
A  worn-out  garment  dim  and  bare, 
And  left  it  in  my  chambers  gray : 
The  salt  breeze  wanders  in  my  hair 
Beside  the  splendor  of  the  main  : 
Ere  on  the  deep  three  sunsets  burn, 
To  the  old  chambers  I  return, 
And  put  it  on  again. 
An  old  coat,  worn  for  many  a  year, 
No  wonder  it  is  something  dear ! 

Ah,  year  by  year  life's  fire  burns  out, 
And  year  by  year  life's  stream  runs  dry  : 
The  wild  deer  dies  within  the  blood, 
The  falcon  in  the  eye. 
And  Hope,  who  sang  miraculous  songs 
Of  what  should  be,  like  one  inspired, 
How  she  should  right  the  ancient  wrongs, 
(The  generous  fool !)  grows  hoarse  and  tired  ; 
And  turns  from  visions  of  a  world  renewed, 


48  CITY   POEMS. 

To  dream  of  tripled  rents,  fair  miles  of  stream  and 

wood. 

The  savage  horse,  that  leads 
His  tameless  herd  across  the  endless  plain, 
Is  taught  at  last,  with  sullen  heart,  to  strain 
Beneath  his  load,  nor  quiver  when  he  bleeds. 
We  cheat  ourselves  with  our  own  lying  eyes, 
We  chase  a  fleeting  mirage  o'er  the  sand, 
Across  a  grave  the  smiling  phantom  flies, 
O'er  which  we  fall  with  a  vain-clutching  hand. 
What  matter  —  if  we  heave  laborious  breath, 
And  crack  our  hearts  and  sinews,  groan  and  weep, 
The  pain  of  life  but  sweetens  death, 
The  hardest  labor  brings  the  soundest  sleep. 

On  bank  and  brae  how  thick  they  grow, 
The  self-same  clumps,  the  self-same  dyes, 
The  primroses  of  long  ago  — 
But  ah  !  the  altered  eyes  ! 
I  dream  they  are  the  very  flowers, 
Warm  with  the  sun,  wet  with  the  showers, 
Which,  years  ago,  I  used  to  pull 
Returning  from  the  murmuring  school. 
Sweet  Nature  is  a  mother  ever  more  ; 
A  thousand  tribes  are  breathing  on  the  shore  ; 
The  pansy  blows  beside  the  rock, 
The  globe-flower  where  the  eddy  swirls  ; 


SQUIRE    MAURICE.  49 

And  on  this  withered  human  stock 

Burst  rosy  boys  and  girls. 

Sets  Nature  little  store 

On  that  which  once  she  bore  ? 

Does  she  forget  the  old,  in  rapture  bear  the  new  ? 

Are  ye  the  flowers  that  grew 

In  other  seasons  ?    Do  they  e'er  return, 

The  men  who  build  the  cities  on  the  plain  ?  — 

Or  must  my  tearless  eyeballs  burn 

Forever  o'er  that  early  urn, 

Ne'er  to  be  cooled  by  a  delicious  dew  ? 

Let  me  take  back  my  pain 

Unto  my  heart  again  ; 

Before  I  can  recover  that  I  lack 

The  world  must  be  rolled  back. 

Inland  I  wander  slow, 

Mute  with  the  power  the  earth  and  heaven  wield : 
A  black  spot  sails  across  the  golden  field, 
And  through  the  air  a  crow. 
Before  me  wavers  spring's  first  butterfly  ; 
From  out  the  sunny  noon  there  starts  the  cuckoo's 

cry; 

The  daisied  meads  are  musical  with  lambs ; 
Some  play,  some  feed,  some,  white  as  snow-flakes,  lie 
In  the  deep  sunshine,  by  their  silent  dams. 
The  road  grows  wide  and  level  to  the  feet ; 
4 


50  CITY  POEMS. 

The    wandering    woodbine    through    the   hedge  is 

drawn, 

Unblown  its  streaky  bugles  dim  and  sweet ; 
Knee-deep  in  fern  stand  startled  doe  and  fawn, 
And  lo  !  there  gleams  upon  a  spacious  lawn 
An  Earl's  marine  retreat. 
A  little  foot-path  quivers  up  the  height, 
And  what  a  vision  for  a  townsman's  sight  I 
A  village,  peeping  from  its  orchard  bloom, 
With  lowly  roofs  of  thatch,  blue  threads  of  smoke, 
Overlooking  all,  a  parsonage  of  white. 
I  hear  the  smithy's  hammer,  stroke  on  stroke  ; 
A  steed  is  at  the  door  ;  the  rustics  talk, 
Proud  of  the  notice  of  the  gaitered  groom  ; 
A  shallow  river  breaks  o'er  shallow  falls. 
Beside  the  ancient  sluice  that  turns  the  mill 
The  lusty  miller  bawls  ; 
The  parson  listens  in  his  garden-walk, 
The  red-cloaked  woman  pauses  on  the  hill. 
This  is  a  place,  you  say,  exempt  from  ill, 
A  paradise,  where,  all  the  loitering  day, 
Enamored  pigeons  coo  upon  the  roof, 
Where  children  ever  play.  - 
Alas  !  Time's  webs  are  rotten,  warp  and  woof; 
Rotten  his  cloth  of  gold,  his  coarsest  wear, 
Here,  black-eyed  Richard  ruins  red-cheeked  Moll, 
Indifferent  as  a  lord  to  her  despair. 


SQUIRE    MAURICE.  51 

The  broken  barrow  hates  the  prosperous  dray  ; 
And,  for  a  padded  pew  in  which  to  pray, 
The  grocer  sells  his  soul. 

This  cosey  hostelry  a  visit  craves  ; 

Here  will  I  sit  a  while, 

And  watch  the  heavenly  sunshine  smile 

Upon  the  village  graves. 

Strange  is  this  little  room  in  which  I  wait, 

With  its  old  table,  rough  with  rustic  names. 

;Tis  summer  now  ;  instead  of  blinking  flames, 

Sweet-srnelling  ferns  are  hanging  o'er  the  grate. 

With  curious  eyes  I  pore 

Upon  the  mantel-piece,  its  precious  wares, 

Glazed  Scripture  prints  in  black  lugubrious  frames, 

Filled  with  old  Bible  lore  : 

The  whale  is  casting  Jonah  on  the  shore  ; 

Pharaoh  is  drowning  in  the  curly  wave  ; 

And  to  Elijah  sitting  at  his  cave 

The  hospitable  ravens  fly  in  pairs, 

Celestial  food  within  their  horny  beaks  ; 

On  a  slim  David,  with  great  pinky  cheeks, 

A  towered  Goliath  stares. 

Here  will  I  sit  at  peace : 

While,  piercing  through  the  window's  ivy-veil, 

A  slip  of  sunshine  smites  the  amber  ale  ; 

And,  as  the  wreaths  of  fragrant  smoke  increase, 


52  CITY  POEMS. 

I  '11  read  the  letter  which  came  down  to-day. 

Ah,  happy  Maurice  !  while  in  chambers  dun 

I  pore  o'er  deeds  and  parchments  growing  gray, 

Each  glowing  realm  that  spreads  beneath  the  sun 

Is  but  a  paradise  where  you  may  play. 

I  am  a  bonded  workman,  you  are  free  ; 

In  your  blood's  hey-day  —  mine  is  early  cold. 

Life  is  rude  furze  at  best ;  the  sea-breeze  wrings 

And  eats  my  branches  on  the  bitter  lea ; 

But  you  have  root  in  dingle  fat  and  old, 

Fat  with  decayings  of  a  hundred  springs, 

And  blaze  all  splendid  in  your  points  of  gold, 

And  in  your  heart  a  linnet  sits  and  sings. 

"  Unstable  as  the  wind,  infirm  as  foam, 
I  envy,  Charles,  your  calmness  and  your  peace ; 
The  eye  that  marks  its  quarry  from  afar, 
The  heart  that  stoops  on  it  and  smites  it  down. 
I,  struggling  in  a  dim  and  obscure  net, 
Am  but  enmeshed  the  more.     When  you  were  here 
My  spirit  often  burned  to  tell  you  all ; 
I  urged  the  horse  up  to  the  leap,  it  shied 
At  something  in  the  hedge.     This  must  not  last ; 
In  shame  and  sorrow,  ere  I  sleep  to-night, 
I  '11  shrive  my  inmost  soul. 

I  have  knelt,  and  sworn 
By  the  sweet  heavens  —  I  have  madly  prayed 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  53 

To  be  by  them  forsaken,  when  I  forsake 
A  girl  whose  lot  should  be  to  sleep  content 
Upon  a  peasant's  breast,  and  toil  all  day 
'Mong  flaxen-headed  children.     She  sits  to-night, 
When  all  the  little  town  is  lost  in  dream, 
Her  lax  hands  sunk  in  her  neglected  work, 
Thinking  of  me.     Smile  not,  my  man  of  law, 
Who,  with  a  peering  candle,  walkest  through 
Black  places  in  men's  hearts,  which  only  hear 
The  foot  of  conscience  at  the  dead  of  night ! 
Iler  name  might  slip  into  my  holiest  prayer  ; 
Her  breath  has  come  and  gone  upon  my  cheek, 
Yet  I  dare  stand  before  my  mother's  face, 
Dare  look  into  the  heavenly  eyes  that  yearn 
Forever  through  a  mist  of  golden  hair, 
With  no  shame  on  my  brow.     'T  is  not  that  way 
My  trouble  looks.     Yet,  friend,  in  simple  truth, 
Could  this  thing  be  obliterated  quite, 
Expunged  forever,  like  a  useless  cloak 
I  'd  fling  off  my  possessions,  and  go  forth, 
My  roof  the  weeping  heaven. 

Though  I  would  die 

Rather  than  give  her  pain,  I  grimly  smile 
To  think,  were  I, assured  this  horrid  dream, 
Which  poisons  day  to  me,  would  only  prove 
A  breath  upon  the  mirror  of  her  mind  — 
A  moment  dim,  then  gone  (an  issue  which 


54  CITY   POEMS. 

Could  /have  blotted  out  all  memory, 

Would  let  me  freely  breathe)  —  this  love  would  turn 

To  bitterest  gall  of  hate.     0  Vanity, 

Thou  god,  who  on  the  altar  thou  hast  built 

Pilest  myrrh  and  frankincense,  appliest  the  flame, 

Then  snufFst  the  smoky  incense,  high  and  calm  ! 

Thou  nimble  Proteus  of  all  human  shapes  ! 

Malvolio,  cross-gartered  in  the  sun, 

The  dying  martyr,  gazing  from  his  fire 

Upon  the  opened  heavens,  filled  with  crowds 

Of  glorious  angel-faces  :  —  thou  art  all 

We  smile  at,  all  we  hymn  !     For  thee  we  blush, 

For  thee  shed  noble  tears  !     The  glowing  coal, 

O'er  which  the  frozen  beggar  spreads  his  hands, 

Is  of  one  essence  with  the  diamond 

That  on  the  haughty  forehead  of  a  queen 

Trembles  with  dewy  light.     Could  /,  through  pain, 

Give  back  the  peace  I  stole,  my  heart  would  leap  ; 

Could  she  forget  me  and  regain  content  — 

How  deeply  I  am  wronged  ! 

"  Is  it  the  ancient  trouble  of  my  house 
That  makes  the  hours  so  terrible  ?     Other  men 
Live  to  more  purpose  than  those  monstrous  weeds 
That  drink  a  breadth  of  sunshine,  and  give  back 
Nor  hue  nor  fragrance  ;  but  my  spirit  droops, 
A  dead  and  idle  banner  from  its  staff, 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  55 

Unstirred  by  any  wind.     Within  a  cell, 

Without  a  straw  to  play  with,  or  a  nail 

To  carve  my  sorrow  on  the  gloomy  stone, 

I  sit  and  watch,  from  stagnant  day  to  day, 

The  bloated  spider  hanging  on  its  thread, 

The  dull  fly  on  the  wall.     The  blessed  sleep 

For  which  none  are  too  poor  ;  the  sleep  that  comes 

So  sweetly  to  the  weary  laboring  man, 

The  march-worn  soldier  on  the  naked  ground, 

The  martyr  in  the  pauses  of  the  rack, 

Drives  me  through  forests  full  of  dreadful  eyes, 

Flings  me  o'er  precipices,  makes  me  kneel, 

A  sentenced  man,  before  the  dark  platoon, 

Or  lays  me  helpless  in  the  dim  embrace 

Of  formless  horror.     Long  ago,  two  foes 

Lay  in  the  yellow  evening  in  their  gore  : 

Like  a  malignant  fury,  that  wild  hour 

Threw  madness  in  the  river  of  our  blood  : 

Though  it  has  run  for  thrice  a  century, 

Been  sweetened  all  the  way  by  mothers'  tears, 

;T  is  poisoned  until  now. 

See  how  I  stand 

Delaying  on  the  brink,  like  one  who  fears 
And  yet  would  meet  the  chill !   When  you  were  here 
You  saw  a  smoking-cap  among  my  books  ; 
A  fond  and  fluttering  letter  badly  spelt, 
Each  sentence  headed  with  a  little  i, 


56  CITY   POEMS. 

Came  with  it,  read  with  a  blush,  tossed  in  the  fire, 
Nor  answered  yet.     Can  you  not  now  detect 
The  snail's  slime  on  the  rose  ? 

This  miserable  thing 

Grew  round  me  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak ; 
Sweet  were  its  early  creeping  rings,  though  now 
I  choke,  from  knotted  root  to  highest  bough. 
In  those  too  happy  days  I  could  not  name 
This  strange  new  thing  which  came  upon  my  youth, 
But  yielded  to  its  sweetness.     Fling  it  off? 
Trample  it  down  ?     Bid  me  pluck  out  the  eye 
In  which  the  sweet  world  dwells !  —  One  night  she 

wept ; 

It  seemed  so  strange  that  /  could  make  her  weep  : 
Kisses  may  lie,  but  tears  are  surely  true. 
Then  unbelief  came  back  in  solitude, 
And  Love  grew  cruel ;  and  to  be  assured 
Cried  out  for  tears,  and  with  a  shaking  hand 
And  a  wild  heart  that  could  have  almost  burst 
With  utter  tenderness,  yet  would  not  spare, 
lie  clutched  her  heart,  and  at  the  starting  tears 
Grew  soft  with  all  remorse.     For  those  mad  hours 
Remembrance  frets  my  heart  in  solitude, 
As  the  lone  mouse  when  all  the  house  is  still 
Gnaws  at  the  wainscot. 

'T  is  a  haunting  face, 
Yet  oftentimes  I  think  I  love  her  not ; 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  57 

Love's  white  hand  flutters  o'er  my  spirit's  keys 
Unkissed  by  grateful  music.     Oft  I  think 
The  Lady  Florence  at  the  county  ball, 
Quenching  the  beauties  as  the  lightning  dims 
The  candles  in  a  room,  scarce  smiles  so  sweet. 
The  one  oppresses  like  a  crown  of  gold, 
The  other  gladdens  like  a  beam  in  spring, 
Stealing  across  a  dim  field,  making  blithe 
Its  daisies  one  by  one.  —  I  deemed  that  I 
Had  broke  my  house  of  bondage,  when  one  night 
The  memory  of  her  face  came  back  so  sweet, 
And  stood  between  me  and  the  printed  page  ; 
And  phantoms  of  a  thousand  happy  looks 
Smiled  from  the  dark.     It  was  the  old  weak  tale 
Which  time  has  told  from  Adam  till  this  hour  : 
The  slave  comes  back,  takes  up  his  broken  chain. 
I  rode  through  storm  toward  the  little  town ; 
The  minster,  gleamed  on  by  the  flying  moon, 
Tolled  midnight  as  I  passed.     I  only  sought 
To  see  the  line  of  light  beneath  her  door, 
The  knowledge  of  her  nearness  was  so  sweet. 
Hid  in  the  darkness  of  the  church,  I  watched 
Her  window  like  a  shrine  :  a  light  came  in, 
And  a  soft  shadow  broke  along  the  roof; 
She  raised  the  window  and  leaned  forth  awhile. 
I  could  have  fallen  down  and  kissed  her  feet ; 
The  poor  dear  heart,  I  knew  it  could  not  rest ; 


58  CITY    POEMS. 

I  stood  between  her  and  the  light  —  ray  shade 
Fell  'cross  her  silver  sphere.     The  window  closed. 
When  morn  with  cold  bleak  crimson  laced  the  east, 
Against  a  stream  of  raw  and  rainy  wind 
I  rode  back  to  the  Hall. 

The  play-book  tells 

How  Fortune's  slippery  wheel  in  Syracuse 
Flung  prosperous  lordship  to  the  chilly  shades, 
Heaved  serfdom  to  the  sun :  in  precious  silks 
Charwomen  flounced,  and  scullions  sat  and  laughed 
In  golden  chairs,  to  see  their  fellows  play 
At  football  with  a  crown.     Within  my  heart 
In  this  old  house,  when  all  the  fiends  are  here, 
The  story  is  renewed.     Peace  only  comes 
With  a  wild  ride  across  the  barren  downs, 
One  look  upon  her  face.     She  ne'er  complains 
Of  my  long  absences,  my  hasty  speech,  — 
'  Crumbs  from  thy  table  are  enough  for  me.' 
She  only  asks  to  be  allowed  to  lean 
Her  head  against  my  breast  a  little  while, 
And  she  is  paid  for  all.     I  choke  with  tears, 
And  think  myself  a  devil  from  the  pit 
Loved  by  an  angel.     0  that  she  would  change 
This  tenderness  and  drooping-lily  look, 
The  flutter  when  I  come,  the  unblaming  voice, 
Wet  eyes  held  up  to  kiss  I     One  flash  of  fire, 
A  moment's  start  of  keen  and  crimson  scorn, 


SQUIttE    MAURICE.  59 

Would  make  me  hers  forever  I 

I  draw  my  birth 

From  a  long  line  of  gallant  gentlemen, 
Who  only  feared  a  lie  —  but  what  is  this  ? 
I  dare  not  slight  the  daughter  of  a  peer; 
Her  kindred  could  avenge.     Yet  I  dare  play 
And  palter  with  the  pure  soul  of  a  girl 
Without  friend,  who,  smitten,  speaks  no  word, 
But  with  a  helpless  face  sinks  in  the  grave, 
And  takes  her  wrongs  to  God.    Thou  dark  Sir  Ralph, 
Who  lay  with  broken  brand  on  Marston  Moor, 
What  think  you  of  this  son  ? 

"  This  prison  that  I  dwell  in  hath  two  doors, 
Desertion,  marriage  ;  both  are  shut  by  shame, 
And  barred  by  cowardice.     A  stronger  man 
Would  screw  his  heart  up  to  the  bitter  wrench, 
And  break  through  either  and  regain  the  air. 
I  cannot  give  myself  or  others  pain. 
I  wear  a  conscience  nice  and  scrupulous, 
Which,  while  it  hesitates  to  draw  a  tear, 
Lets  a  heart  break.    Conscience  should  be  clear-eyed, 
And  look  through  years  :  conscience  is  tenderest  oft 
When  clad  in  sternness,  when  it  smites  to-day, 
To  stay  the  ruin  which  it  hears  afar 
Upon  the  wind.     Pure  womanhood  is  meek  — 
But  which  is  nobler,  the  hysterical  girl 


60  CITY   POEMS. 

Weeping  o'er  flies  huddling  in  slips  of  sun 

On  autumn  sills,  who  has  not  heart  enough 

To  crush  a  wounded  grasshopper  and  end 

Torture  at  once  ;  or  she,  with  flashing  eyes, 

Among  the  cannon,  a  heroic  foot 

Upon  a  fallen  breast  ?     My  nerveless  will 

Is  like  a  traitorous  second,  and  deserts 

My  purpose  in  the  very  gap  of  need. 

I  groan  beneath  this  cowardice  of  heart, 

Which  rolls  the  evil  to  be  borne  to-day 

Upon  to-morrow,  loading  it  with  gloom. 

The  man  who  clothes  the  stony  moor  with  green, 

In  virtue  of  the  beauty  he  creates, 

Has  there  a  right  to  dwell.     And  he  who  stands 

Firm  in  this  shifting  sand  and  drift  of  things, 

And  rears  from  out  the  wasteful  elements 

An  ordered  home,  in  which  the  awful  Gods, 

The  lighter  Graces,  serene  Muses,  dwell, 

Holds  in  that  masterdom  the  chartered  right 

To  his  demesne  of  Time.     But  I  hold  none  ; 

I  live  by  sufferance,  am  weak  and  vain 

As  a  shed  leaf  upon  a  turbid  stream, 

Or  an  abandoned  boat  which  can  but  drift 

Whither  the  currents  draw  —  to  maelstrom,  or 

To  green  delicious  shores.     I  should  have  had 

My  pendent  cradle  rocked  by  laughing  winds 

Within  some  innocent  and  idle  isle 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  61 

Where  the  sweet  bread-fruit  ripens  and  falls  down, 
Where  the  swollen  pumpkin  lolls  upon  the  ground, 
The  lithe  and  slippery  savage,  drenched  with  oil, 
Sleeps  in  the  sun,  and  life  is  lazy  ease. 
But  lamentation  and  complaint  are  vain : 
The  skies  are  stern  and  serious  as  doom  ; 
The  avalanche  is  loosened  by  a  laugh ; 
And  he  who  throws  the  dice  of  destiny, 
Though  with  a  sportive  and  unthinking  hand, 
Must  bide  the  issue,  be  it  life  or  death. 
One  path  is  clear  before  me.     It  may  lead 
O'er  perilous  rock,  'cross  sands  without  a  well, 
Through  deep  and  difficult  chasms  ;  but  therein 
The  whiteness  of  the  soul  is  kept,  and  that, 
Not  joy  nor  happiness,  is  victory. 

"  Ah,  she  is  not  the  creature  who  I  dreamed 
Should  one  day  walk  beside  me  dearly  loved : 
No  fair  majestic  woman,  void  of  fear, 
And  unabashed  from  purity  of  heart ; 
No  girl  with  liquid  eyes  and  shadowy  hair, 
To  sing  at  twilight  like  a  nightingale, 
Or  fill  the  silence  with  her  glimmering  smiles, 
Deeper  than  speech  or  song.     She  has  no  birth, 
No  dowry,  graces  ;  no  accomplishments, 
Save  a  pure  cheek,  a  fearless,  innocent  brow, 
And  a  true-beating  heart.     She  is  no  bank 


62  CITY   POEMS. 

Of  rare  exotics  which  o'ercome  the  sense 

With  perfumes  —  only  fresh  uncultured  soil 

With  a  wild-violet  grace  and  sweetness  born 

Of  Nature's  teeming  foison.     Is  this  not 

Enough  to  sweeten  life  ?     Could  one  not  live 

On  brown  bread,  clearest  water  ?     Is  this  love 

(What  idle  poets  feign  in  fabling  songs) 

An  unseen  god,  whose  voice  is  heard  but  once 

In  youth's  green  valleys,  ever  dead  and  mute 

'Mong  manhood's  iron  hills  ?     A  power  that  comes 

On  the  instant,  whelming,  like  the  light  that  smote 

Saul  from  his  horse  ;  never  a  thing  that  draws 

Its  exquisite  being  from  the  light  of  smiles 

And  low  sweet  tones  and  fond  companionship  ? 

Brothers  and  sisters  grow  up  by  our  sides, 

Unfelt  and  silently  are  knit  to  us, 

And  one  flesh  with  our  hearts  ;  would  love  not  grow 

In  the  communion  of  long- wedded  years, 

Sweet  as  the  dawning  light,  the  greening  spring? 

Would  not  an  infant  be  the  marriage  priest, 

To  stand  between  us  and  unite  our  hands, 

And  bid  us  love  and  be  obeyed  ?  its  life, 

A  fountain,  with  a  cooling  fringe  of  green 

Amid  the  arid  sands,  by  which  we  twain 

Could  dwell  in  deep  content  ?     My  sunshine  drew 

This  odorous  blossom  from  the  bough  ;  why  then 

With  frosty  fingers  wither  it,  and  seal  up 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  63 

Sun-ripened  fruit  within  its  barren  rind, 
Killing  all  sweet  delights  ?     I  drew  it  forth  : 
If  there  is  suffering,  let  me  bear  it  all. 

"  A  very  little  goodness  goes  for  much. 
Walk  'inong  my  peasants,  —  every  urchin's  face 
Lights  at  my  coming  ;  girls  at  cottage-doors 
Rise  from  their  work  and  curtsey  as  I  pass, 
And  old  men  bless  me  with  their  silent  tears ! 
What  have  I  done  for  this  ?     I  'm  kind,  they  say, 
Give  coals  in  winter,  cordials  for  the  sick, 
And  once  a  fortnight  stroke  a  curly  head 
Which  hides  half-frightened  in  a  russet  gown. 
'Tis  easy  for  the  sun  to  shine.     My  alms 
Are  to  my  riches  like  a  beam  to  him. 
They  love  me,  these  poor  hinds,  though  I  have  ne'er 
Resigned  a  pleasure,  let  a  whim  be  crossed, 
Pinched  for  an  hour  the  stomach  of  desire 
For  one  of  them.     Good  Heaven  !  what  am  I 
To  be  thus  servitored  ?     Am  I  to  range 
Like  the  discourseless  creatures  of  the  wood, 
Without  the  common  dignity  of  pain, 
Without  a  pale  or  limit  ?     To  take  up  love 
For  its  strange  sweetness,  and,  whene'er  it  tires, 
Fling  it  aside  as  careless  as  I  brush 
A  gnat  from  off  my  arm,  and  go  my  way 
Untwinged  with  keen  remorse  ?     All  this  must  end. 


64  CITY   POEMS. 

Firm  land  at  last  begins  to  peer  above 

The  ebbing  waves  of  hesitance  and  doubt. 

Throughout  this  deepening  spring  my  purpose  grows 

To  flee  with  her  to  those  young  morning  lands  — 

Australia,  where  the  earth  is  gold,  or  where 

The  prairies  roll  toward  the  setting  sun. 

Not  Lady  Florence  with  her  coronet, 

Flinging  white  arms  around  me,  murmuring 

'  Husband ;  upon  my  breast  —  not  even  that 

Could  make  me  happy,  if  I  left  a  grave 

On  which  the  shadow  of  the  village  spire 

Should  rest  at  eve.     The  pain,  if  pain  there  be, 

I  '11  keep  locked  up  within  my  secret  heart, 

And  wear  what  joy  I  have  upon  my  face  ; 

And  she  shall  live  and  laugh,  and  never  know. 

"  Come,  Brother,  at  your  earliest,  down  to  me. 
To-morrow  night  I  sleep  at  Ferny-Chase  : 
There,  shadowed  by  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
We  '11  talk  of  this.     My  thought,  mayhap,  will  take 
A  different  hue,  seen  in  your  purer  light, 
Free  from  all  stain  of  passion.     Ere  you  come, 
Break  that  false  mirror  of  your  ridicule, 
Looking  in  which,  the  holiest  saint  beholds 
A  grinning  Jackanapes,  and  hates  himself. 
More  men  have  Laughter  driven  from  the  right 
Than  Terror  clad  with  fire.     You  have  been  young, 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  05 

And  know  the  mystery,  that  when  we  love, 

We  love  the  thing,  not  only  for  itself, 

But  somewhat  also  for  the  love  we  give. 

Think  of  the  genial  season  of  your  youth, 

When  you  dwelt  here,  and  come  with  serious  heart." 

So,  in  that  bitter  quarter  sits  the  wind  : 
The  village  fool  could  tell,  unless  it  shifts, 
'T  will  bring  the  rain  in  fiercest  flaws  and  drifts  ! 
How  wise  we  are,  yet  blind, 
Judging  the  wood's  grain  from  the  outer  rind ; 
Wrapt  in  the  twilight  of  this  prison  dim, 
He  envies  me,  I  envy  him  ! 

The  stream  of  my  existence  boils  and  leaps 
Through  broken  rainbows  'rnong  the  purple  fells, 
And  breaks  its  heart  'mid  rocks,  close-jammed,  con 
fined, 

And  plunges  in  a  chasm  black  and  blind, 
To  rage  in  hollow  gulfs  and  iron  hells, 
And  thence  escaping,  tamed  and  broken,  creeps 
Away  in  a  wild  sweat  of  beads  and  bells. 
Though  his  slides  lazy  through  the  milky  meads, 
And  once  a  week  the  sleepy  slow-trailed  barge 
Rocks  the  broad  water-lilies  on  its  marge, 
A  dead  face  wavers  from  the  oozy  weeds. 
It  is  but  little  matter  where  we  dwell, 
5 


66  CITY   POEMS. 

In  fortune's  centre,  on  her  utter  verge  ; 

Whither  to  death  our  weary  steps  we  urge, 

Or  ride  with  rin-ging  bridle,  golden  selle. 

Life  is  one  pattern  wrought  in  different  hues, 

And  there  is  naught  to  choose 

Between  its  sad  and  gay  —  'tis  but  to  groan 

Upon  a  rainy  common  or  a  throne, 

Bleed  'neath  the  purple  or  the  peasants'  serge. 

At  his  call  I  will  go, 
Though  it  is  very  little  love  can  do  ; 
In  spite  of  all  affection  tried  and  true, 
Each  man  alone  must  struggle  with  his  woe. 
He  pities  her,  for  he  has  done  her  wrong, 
And  would  repair  the  evil  —  noble  deed, 
To  flash  and  tingle  in  a  minstrel's  song, 
To  move  the  laughter  of  our  modern  breed  I 
And  yet  the  world  is  wise  ;  each  curve  and  round 
Of  custom's  road  is  no  result  of  chance  ; 
It  curves  but  to  avoid  some  treacherous  ground, 
Some  quagmire  in  the  wilds  of  circumstance  ; 
Nor  safely  left.     The  long-drawn  caravan 
Wavers  through  heat,  then  files  o'er  Mecca's  stones  ; 
Far  in  the  blinding  desert  lie  the  bones 
Of  the  proud-hearted  solitary  man. 
He  marries  her,  but  ere  the  year  has  died,  • — 
;T  is  an  old  tale,  —  they  wander  to  the  grave 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  67 

With  hot  revolting  hearts,  yet  lashed  and  tied 

Like  galley-slave  to  slave. 

Love  should  not  stoop  to  Love,  like  prince  to  lord : 

While  o'er  their  heads  proud  Cupid  claps  his  wings, 

Love  should  meet  Love  upon  the  marriage  sward, 

And  kiss,  like  crowned  kings. 

If  both  are  hurt,  then  let  them  bear  the  pain 

Upon  their  separate  paths  ;  'twill  die  at  last: 

The  deed  of  one  rash  moment  may  remain 

To  darken  all  the  future  with  the  past. 

And  yet  I  cannot  tell,  —  the  beam  that  kills 

The  gypsy's  fire,  kindles  the  desert  flower ; 

Where  he  plucks  blessings  I  may  gather  ills, 

And  in  his  sweetest  sweet  find  sourest  sour. 

If  what  of  wisdom  and  experience 

My  years  have  brought  be  either  guide  or  aid, 

They  shall  be  his,  though  to  my  mournful  sense 

The  lights  will  steal  away  from  wood  and  glade  ; 

The  garden  will  be  sad  with  all  its  glows, 

And  I  shall  hear  the  glistening  laurels  talk 

Of  her,  as  I  pass  under  in  the  walk, 

And  my  light  step  will  thrill  each  conscious  rose. 

The  lark  hangs  high  o'er  Ferny-Chase 
In  slant  of  sun,  in  twinkle  of  rain  ; 
Though  loud  and  clear,  the  song  I  hear 
Is  half  of  joy,  and  half  of  pain. 


68  CITY  POEMS. 

I  know  by  heart  the  dear  old  place, 

The  place  where  Spring  and  Summer  meet — 

By  heart,  like  those  old  ballad  rhymes, 

O'er  which  I  brood  a  million  times, 

And  sink  from  sweet  to  deeper  sweet. 

I  know  the  changes  of  the  idle  skies, 

The  idle  shapes  in  which  the  clouds  are  blown  ; 

The  dear  old  place  is  now  before  my  eyes, 

Yea,  to  the  daisy's  shadow  on  the  stone. 

When  through  the  golden  furnace  of  the  heat 

The  far-off  landscape  seems  to  shake  and  beat, 

Within  the  lake  I  see  old  Hodge's  cows 

Stand  in  their  shadows  in  a  tranquil  drowse, 

While  o'er  them  hangs  a  restless  steam  of  flies. 

I  see  the  clustered  chimneys  of  the  Hall 

Stretch  o'er  the  lawn  toward  the  blazing  lake  ; 

And  in  the  dewy  even-fall 

I  hear  the  mellow  thrushes  call 

From  tree  to  tree,  from  brake  to  brake. 

Ah !  when  I  thither  go 

I  know  that  my  joy-emptied  eyes  shall  see 

A  white  Ghost  wandering  where  the  lilies  blow, 

A  Sorrow  sitting  by  the  try  sting-tree. 

I  kiss  this  soft  curl  of  her  living  hair, 

'Tis  full  of  light  as  when  she  did  unbind 

Her  sudden  ringlets,  making  bright  the  wind  : 

;T  is  here,  but  she  is  —  where  ? 


SQUIRE   MAURICE.  69 

Why  do  I,  like  a  child  impatient,  weep  ? 
Delight  dies  like  a  wreath  of  frosted  breath  ; 
Though  here  I  toil  upon  the  barren  deep, 
I  see  the  sunshine  yonder  lie  asleep 
Upon  the  calm  and  beauteous  shores  of  Death. 
Ah,  Maurice,  let  thy  human  heart  decide, 
The  first  best  pilot  through  distracting  jars. 
The  lowliest  roof  of  love  at  least  will  hide 
The  desolation  of  the  lonely  stars. 
Stretched  on  the  painful  rack  of  forty  years, 
I  've  learned  at  last  the  sad  philosophy 
Of  the  unhoping  heart,  unshrinking  eye  — 
God  knows  ;  my  icy  wisdom  and  my  sneers 
Are  frozen  tears  I 

The  day  wears,  and  I  go. 
Farewell,  Elijah  I  may  you  heartily  dine  I 
I  cannot,  David,  see  your  fingers  twine 
In  the  long  hair  of  your  foe. 
Housewife,  adieu,  Heaven  keep  your  ample  form  ; 
May  custom  never  fail ; 

And  may  your  heart,  as  sound  as  your  own  ale, 
Be  soured  by  never  a  storm  ! 

Though  I  have  travelled  now  for  twice  an  hour, 
I  have  not  heard  a  bird  or  seen  a  flower. 
This  wild  road  has  a  little  mountain  rill 


70  CITY  POEMS. 

To  sing  to  it,  ah  !  happier  than  I. 

How  desolate  the  region,  and  how  still 

The  idle  earth  looks  on  the  idle  sky  I 

I  trace  the  river  by  its  wandering  green  ; 

The  vale  contracts  to  a  steep  pass  of  fear, 

And  through  the  midnight  of  the  pines  I  hear 

The  torrent  raging  down  the  long  ravine. 

At  last  I  've  reached  the  summit  high  and  bare  ; 

I  fling  myself  on  heather  dry  and  brown  : 

As  silent  as  a  picture  lies  the  town, 

Its  peaceful  smokes  are  curling  in  the  air  ; 

The  bay  is  one  delicious  sheet  of  rose, 

And  round  the  far  point  of  the  tinted  cliffs 

I  see  the  long  strings  of  the  fishing  skiffs 

Come  home  to  roost  like  lines  of  evening  crows. 

I  can  be  idle  only  one  day  more 

As  the  nets  drying  on  the  sunny  shore  ; 

Thereafter,  chambers,  still  'mid  thronged  resorts, 

Strewn  books  and  littered  parchments,  naught  to  see, 

Save  a  charwoman's  face,  a  dingy  tree, 

A  fountain  plashing  in  the  empty  courts. 

But  let  me  hasten  down  this  shepherd's  track, 
The  Night  is  at  my  back. 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE    THE    WEDDING; 

OR, 

TEN   YEARS   AFTER. 

THE  country  ways  are  full  of  mire, 

The  boughs  toss  in  the  fading  light, 
The  winds  blow  out  the  sunset's  fire, 

And  sudden  droppeth  down  the  night. 
I  sit  in  this  familiar  room, 

Where  mud-splashed  hunting  squires  resort ; 
My  sole  companion  in  the  gloom 

This  slowly  dying  pint  of  port. 

7Mong  all  the  joys  my  soul  hath  known, 

'Mong  errors  over  which  it  grieves, 
I  sit  at  this  dark  hour  alone, 

Like  Autumn  mid  his  withered  leaves. 
This  is  a  night  of  wild  farewells 

To  all  the  past,  the  good,  the  fair ; 
To-morrow,  and  my  wedding  bells 

Will  make  a  music  in  the  air. 

Like  a  wet  fisher  tempest-tost, 

Who  sees  throughout  the  weltering  night 


72  CITY   POEMS. 

Afar  on  some  low-lying  coast 

The  streaming  of  a  rainy  light, 
I  saw  this  hour,  —  and  now  't  is  come  ; 

The  rooms  are  lit,  the  feast  is  set ; 
Within  the  twilight  I  am  dumb, 

My  heart  filled  with  a  vague  regret. 

I  cannot  say,  in  Eastern  style, 

Where'er  she  treads  the  pansy  blows  ; 
Nor  call  her  eyes  twin-stars,  her  smile 

A  sunbeam,  and  her  mouth  a  rose. 
Nor  can  I,  as  your  bridegrooms  do, 

Talk  of  my  raptures.     0,  how  sore 
The  fond  romance  of  twenty-two 

Is  parodied  ere  thirty-four  ! 

To-night  I  shake  hands  with  the  past,  — 

Familiar  years,  adieu,  adieu  ! 
An  unknown  door  is  open  cast, 

An  empty  future  wide  and  new 
Stands  waiting.     0  ye  naked  rooms, 

Void,  desolate,  without  a  charm  ! 
Will  Love's  smile  chase  your  lonely  glooms, 

And  drape  your  walls,  and  make  them  warm  ? 

The  man  who  knew,  while  he  was  young, 
Some  soft  and  soul-subduing  air, 


THE   NIGIIT   BEFORE   THE   WEDDING.  73 

Melts  when  again  he  hears  it  sung, 

Although  't  is  only  half  so  fair. 
So  love  I  thee,  and  love  is  sweet 

(My  Florence,  'tis  the  cruel  truth) 
Because  it  can  to  age  repeat 

That  long-lost  passion  of  my  youth. 

0,  often  did  my  spirit  melt, 

Blurred  letters,  o'er  your  artless  rhymes  ! 
Fair  tress,  in  which  the  sunshine  dwelt, 

I  've  kissed  thee  many  a  million  times  I 
And  now  'tis  done.  —  My  passionate  tears, 

Mad  pleadings  with  an  iron  fate, 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  my  years, 

Are  blackened  ashes  in  the  grate. 

Then  ring  in  the  wind,  my  wedding  chimes  ; 

Smile,  villagers,  at  every  door ; 
Old  churchyard,  stuffed  with  buried  crimes, 

Be  clad  in  sunshine  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
And  youthful  maidens,  white  and  sweet, 

Scatter  your  blossoms  far  and  wide  ; 
And  with  a  bridal  chorus  greet 

This  happy  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

"  This  happy  bridegroom  !  "  there  is  sin 
At  bottom  of  my  thankless  mood  : 


74  CITY   POEMS. 

What  if  desert  alone  could  win 

For  me  life's  chiefest  grace  and  good? 

Love  gives  itself;  and  if  not  given, 
No  genius,  beauty,  state,  or  wit, 

No  gold  of  earth,  no  gem  of  heaven, 
Is  rich  enough  to  purchase  it. 

It  may  be,  Florence,  loving  thee, 

My  heart  will  its  old  memories  keep  ; 
Like  some  worn  sea-shell  from  the  sea, 

Filled  with  the  music  of  the  deep. 
And  you  may  watch,  on  nights  of  rain, 

A  shadow  on  my  brow  encroach ; 
Be  startled  by  my  sudden  pain, 

And  tenderness  of  self-reproach. 

It  may  be  that  your  loving  wiles 

Will  call  a  sigh  from  far-off  years  ; 
It  may  be  that  your  happiest  smiles 

Will  brim  my  eyes  with  hopeless  tears  ; 
It  may  be  that  my  sleeping  breath 

Will  shake,  with  painful  visions  wrung ; 
And,  in  the  awful  trance  of  death, 

A  stranger's  name  be  on  my  tongue. 

Ye  phantoms,  born  of  bitter  blood, 
Ye  ghosts  of  passion,  lean  and  worn, 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   THE    WEDDING.  75 

Ye  terrors  of  a  lonely  mood, 

What  do  you  here  on  a  wedding  morn  ? 
For,  as  the  dawning  sweet  and  fast 

Through  all  the  heaven  spreads  and  flows, 
Within  life's  discord  rude  and  vast, 

Love's  subtle  music  grows  and  grows. 

And  lightened  is  the  heavy  curse, 

And  clearer  is  the  weary  road  ; 
The  very  worm  the  sea-weeds  nurse 

Is  cared  for  by  the  Eternal  God. 
My  love,  pale  blossom  of  the  snow, 

lias  pierced  earth  wet  with  wintry  showers, — 
0  may  it  drink  the  sun,  and  blow, 

And  be  followed  by  all  the  year  of  flowers  I 

Black  Bayard  from  the  stable  bring ; 

The  rain  is  o'er,  the  wind  is  down, 
Round  stirring  farms  the  birds  will  sing, 

The  dawn  stand  in  the  sleeping  town, 
Within  an  hour.     This  is  her  gate, 

Her  sodden  roses  droop  in  night, 
And — emblem  of  my  happy  fate  — 

In  one  dear  window  there  is  light. 

The  dawn  is  oozing  pale  and  cold 

Through  the  damp  east  for  many  a  mile  ; 


76  CITY  POEMS. 

When  half  my  tale  of  life  is  told 
Grim-featured  Time  begins  to  smile. 

Last  star  of  night  that  lingerest  yet 
In  that  long  rift  of  rainy  gray, 

Gather  thy  wasted  splendors,  set, 
And  die  into  my  wedding-day. 


A    BOY'S    POEM. 

INTRODUCTION. 

WE  have  been  parted  now  for  twenty  years  ; 

Oft  messages  and  gratulations  kind 

Have  flown  across  the  sea,  and  you  have  fell 

A  hand  from  England  touch  you  'neath  the  Palm  ; ' 

At  every  little  gift  from  you  it  seemed 

As  if  my  senses  had  been  visited 

By  India's  fragrant  wind.     With  love  like  ours 

These  things  are  certain,  as  that  in  the  spring 

The  rapture  of  the  lark  will  fill  the  air, 

The   wind-flower  light  the   woods.      How   strange 

will  be 

Our  meeting,  long  expected,  ere  we  die  ! 
Both  will  be  changed.     The  boat  that  forty  years 
Has  heaved  and  labored  in  the  mounded  brine, 
Is  cracked  by  sun-fire,  bent  by  rainy  squalls, 
Eaten  by  restless  foam.     We  will  peruse 
Each  other's  faces,  read  the  matter  there, 
In  our  grim  northern  silence  —  and  all  be  told 
In  one  long  passionate  wring  of  clasped  hands. 


78  CITY   POEMS. 

You  can  remember  how  we,  in  our  youth, 
Looked  forward  to  the  years  that  were  to  come.  — 
We  stood  upon  the  verge  of  a  great  sea ; 
An  airy  rumor  of  its  mighty  capes, 
Its  isles  of  summer,  its  lone  peaks  of  fire, 
Unknown  Americas  that  lay  asleep, 
Charmed  our  fond  ears  ;  forthwith  we  launched  from 

shore, 

The  wind  sang  in  the  hollows  of  our  sails, 
And  wonder  rose  on  wonder  as  we  went. 
We  now  have  voyaged  many  a  foamy  league, 
Sailed  far  beyond  the  curtain  of  the  sky 
Which  mocked  our  vision  gazing  from  the  strand. 
Have  we  secured  a  haven  of  repose 
Where  we  may  moulder  plank  by  plank  in  peace  ? 
Or  with  our  shrivelled  canvas,  battered  hall, 
Must  we  steer  onward  through  the  waste  of  waves, 
Beneath  the  closing  night  ? 

The  streams  that  burst, 
Companions,  from  the  misty  mountain  top, 
And  hear  each  other's  music  for  a  while, 
Are  far  divided  ere  they  meet  the  sea. 
Shut  from  the  blinding  sun-bath  of  the  noon 
I  see  you  stretched  ;  the  only  living  sound 
Within  the  tingling  silence  of  the  heat, 
The  long  wave's  drowsy  tumble  on  the  bar ; 
And  in  your  heart  you  hear  another  shore  ; 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  79 

Then,  like  a  charger  by  the  trumpet  pricked, 
You  start  erect,  a  flash  upon  your  face  — 
A  spirt  of  smoke,  the  thunder  of  a  gun, 
A  ship  from  England  I 

With  much  care  and  toil, 

With  something  of  the  forethought  of  the  squirrel, 
And  laboring  bee  that  ever  works  and  sings, 
I  've  laid  up  store,  ere  life  became  to  me 
Bare  as  a  stubble-field.     I  've  built  a  home 
Beside  the  river  which  we  used  to  love. 
The  murmur  of  the  city  reaches  here, 
And  makes  the  silence  more  divinely  still, 
And  the  remembered  turmoils  of  my  youth 
Sweeten  this  deep  tranquillity  of  age. 
If  in  a  world  that  changes  like  a  cloud, 
A  man  may,  in  pure  humbleness  of  heart, 
Say  he  is  happy,  I  am  surely  he. 
Time  unto  me  hath  been  the  dearest  friend  ; 
For  Time  is  like  the  peacefulness  of  grass, 
Which  clothes,  as  if  with  silence  and  deep  sleep, 
Deserted  plains  that  once  were  loud  with  strife  ; 
Which  hides  the  marks  of  earthquake  and  of  fire ; 
Which  makes  the  rigid  and  the  clay-cold  grave 
Smooth  as  a  billow,  tender  with  green  light. 
The  world  and  I  are  friends.     When  I  depart, 
Upon  the  threshold  I  '11  shake  hands  with  Life 
As  with  a  generous  and  a  cheerful  host 


80  CITY   POEMS. 

Who  gave  me  ample  welcome  'neath  his  roof. 

Now,  in  the  sober  evening  of  my  days, 

I  do  resemble  in  contentedness 

An  ancient  grange  half  hid  in  harvest-home  : 

Though  there  is  little  warmth  within  my  sky, 

Though  streaks  of  rain  fall  on  the  yellow  woods, 

Though  wild  winds  clash  my  vanes  —  yet  I  have 

stored 

A  summer's  sunshine  in  my  crowds  of  stacks  : 
Although  hoar  frost  at  morn  is  on  the  brier, 
With  oil,  and  roaring  logs,  I  can  make  blithe 
The  long  long  winter-night.     I  've  suffered  much, 
And  known  the  deepest  sorrow  man  can  know. 
That  pain  has  fled  upon  the  troubled  years  : 
Although  the  world  is  darker  than  before, 
There  is  a  pathos  round  the  daisy's  head  : 
The  common  sunshine  in  the  common  fields, 
The  runnel  by  the  road,  the  clouds  that  grow 
Out  of  tho  blue  abysses  of  the  air, 
Do  not  as  in  my  earlier  days,  oppress 
Me  with  their  beauty  ;  for  the  grief  that  dims 
The  eye  and  cheek,  hath  touched  them  too,  and  made 
Them  dearer  to  me,  being  more  akin. 
Death  weaves  the  subtle  mystery  of  joy  ; 
He  gives  a  trembling  preciousness  to  love, 
Makes  stern  eyes  dim  above  a  sleeping  face 
Half-hidden  in  its  cloud  of  golden  curls. 


A    BOY*8    POEM.  81 

Death  is  a  greater  poet  far  than  Love  ; 
The  summer  light  is  sweeter  for  his  shade. 

The  past  is  very  tender  at  my  heart ; 
Full,  as  the  memory  of  an  ancient  friend 
When  once  again  we  stand  beside  his  grave. 
Raking  amongst  old  papers  thrown  in  haste 
'Mid  useless  lumber,  unawares  I  came 
On  a  forgotten  poem  of  my  youth. 
I  went  aside  and  read  each  faded  page 
Warm  with  dead  passion,  sweet  with  buried  Junes, 
Filled  with  the  light  of  suns  that  are  no  more. 
I  stood  like  one  who  finds  a  golden  tress 
Given  by  loving  hands  no  more  on  earth, 
And  starts,  beholding  how  the  dust  of  years, 
Which  dims  all  else,  has  never  touched  its  light. 
I  stood  before  the  grave-door  of  the  past, 
And  to  these  eyes  my  yet  unmouldered  youth 
Came  forth  like  Lazarus.     Thou  swallow,  Love, 
Which  thus  revisit'st  thine  accustomed  eaves, 
Return,  return  to  climes  beyond  the  sea  I 
This  ruined  nest  can  never  nurse  thy  young  ; 
Thy  twitter,  and  thy  silver-flashing  breast, 
But  mock  me  with  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

I  have  been  bold  enough  to  send  you  this, 
Though  little  of  the  Poet's  shaping  art 
6 


82  CITY   POEMS. 

Is  in  these  sheets,  and  nothing  more  was  sought 

Than  that  most  sweet  relief  which  dwells  in  verse 

To  a  new  spirit  o'er  which  tyrannized, 

Like  a  musician  o'er  an  instrument, 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  the  majestic  world. 

You  knew  me  when  my  fond  and  ignorant  youth 

Was  an  unwihdowed  chamber  of  delight, 

Deaf  to  all  noise,  sweet  as  a  rose's  heart : 

A  sudden  earthquake  rent  it  to  the  base, 

And  through  the  rifts  of  ruin  sternly  gleamed 

An  apparition  of  gray  windy  crag, 

Black  leagues  of  forest  roaring  like  a  sea, 

And  far  lands  dim  with  rain.     There  was  my  world 

And  place  for  evermore.     When  forth  I  went 

I  took  my  gods  with  me,  and  set  them  up 

Within  my  foreign  home.     What  love  I  had, 

What  admiration  and  keen  sense  of  joy 

Unspent  in  verse,  has  been  to  me  a  stream 

Feeding  the  roots  of  being  ;  living  sap 

That  dwelt  within  the  myriad  boughs  of  life, 

And  kept  the  leaves  of  feeling  fresh  and  green. 

Instead  of  sounding  in  the  heads  of  fools, 

Like  wind  within  a  ruin,  it  became 

A  pious  benediction  and  a  smile 

On  all  the  goings  on  of  human  life  ; 

An  incommunicable  joy  in  day, 

In  lone  waste  places,  and  the  light  of  stars. 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  83 

Now,  as  the  years  wear  on,  I  hunger  more 
To  see  your  face  again  before  I  die. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  a  mighty  ship 
Through  a  great  sea  of  moonlight  bearing  on, 
Its  coil  of  smoke  dissolving  into  mist 
Beyond  its  shining  track ;  and  in  my  dream 
I  felt  you  on  your  way.     May  this  be  true  1 
Sometimes,  in  looking  back  upon  my  life, 
I  fear  I  have  mistaken  ill  for  good. 
There  are  no  children's  voices  in  my  house. 
If  I  have  never  ventured  from  the  strand, 
Been  spared  the  peril  of  the  storm  and  rock, 
I  never  have  returned  with  merchandise. 
I  know  that  She  has  melted  from  your  sight, 
And  that  a  colony  of  little  graves 
Makes  that  far  earth  as  sacred  as  the  sky. 
Alone  like  me  —  your  solitude  is  not 
Empty  like  mine  :  lost  faces  come  and  go  ; 
I  have  but  thoughts.     It  may  be  that  you  weep, 
But  I  have  not  a  sorrow  worth  a  tear : 
Methinks  to-night  mine  seems  the  harder  fate. 
The  fire  I  kindled  warmed  myself  alone, 
And  now,  when  it  is  sinking  red  and  low 
Within  the  solemn  gloom,  there  is  no  hand 
To  heap  on  fuel.     Therefore  let  it  sink. 
Life  cannot  bring  me  more  than  it  has  brought. 
The  oft-repeated  tale  has  lost  its  charm. 


84  CITY   POEMS. 

I  would  not  linger  on  to  age,  and  have 
The  gold  of  life  beat  out  to  thinnest  leaf. 

Like  winds  that  in  the  crimson  autumn  eves 
Pipe  of  the  winter  snow,  my  prescient  thoughts 
Are  touched  with  sadness.     Ay,  the  leaf  must  fall 
And  rot  in  the  long  rain.     The  stage  is  bare, 
The  actor  and  the  critic  have  retired, 
And  through  the  empty  house  a  hand  I  know 
Is  putting  out  the  lights  ;  't  will  soon  be  dark. 


PART  I. 

THERE  was  an  awful  silence  in  the  house 

Where  my  dead  father  lay.     When  years  had  passed, 

That  silence  lay  upon  my  mother's  face, 

And  mingled  with  her  motions  and  her  speech. 

We  lived  alone  —  alone  save  one  stern  guest 

Who  sat  beside  our  hearth  and  made  it  cold  : 

By  many  a  hearth  he  sits.     Yet  never  came 

A  murmur  or  complaint  from  her  thin  lips. 

When  but  a  trembling  wind-flower  of  a  child, 
They  set  me  in  a  large  and  crowded  school. 
The  pale  preceptor  clad  in  rusty  black, 
The  reading  classes,  and  the  murmuring  forms 
Were  torture  ;  and  the  ringing  play-ground,  hell. 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  85 

I  shrank  from  crowds  of  loud  and  boisterous  boys. 
The  pain  and  forfeit  of  each  game  was  mine  ; 
Contempt,  and   scorn,  and  taunts,  were   rained  on 

me ; 

I  wept  within  my  little  bed  at  night, 
And  wished  that  I  were  happy  in  my  grave. 
From  out  this  depth  of  sorrow  slowly  grew 
A  kindred  and  strange  sympathy  with  eve, 
With  the  unhoused  and  outcast  winds,  and  with 
The  rain  which  I  had  heard  so  often  weep 
Alone,  within  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Like  a  poor,  beaten,  and  despised  child 
That  has  been  thrust  forth  from  its  father's  door. 
And  often,  when  the  burning  sun  went  down, 
I  sat  and  wept  unseen.     The  dark'ning  earth, 
The  void  deserted  sky,  were  like  myself; 
They  seemed  unhappy,  sad,  forsaken  things  ; 
My  childish  sorrows  made  me  kin  with  them  ; 
Orphans  we  sat  together.     Sitting  there, 
What  joy,  when  o'er  the  huddled  chimney-tops 
Rose  the  great  yellow  moon  !    Since  then  I  've  seen 
Her  rise  o'er  mountain  brows,  droop  large  with  bliss 
O'er    steaming    autumn    meads,    touch    lochs    that 

spread 

A  hundred  branching  arms  among  the  hills, 
With  leagues  of  throbbing  silver  —  never  more 
With  the  delight  of  these  remembered  nights. 


86  CITY   POEMS. 

Tears  dried  upon  my  proud  and  burning  cheeks ; 
When  a  tormentor  struck  me,  to  the  soul 
I  stung  him  with  a  taunt.     My  new-found  power 
Made  the  world  brighter  ;  and  to  feel  him  wince 
Was  solitary  joy  —  a  fresh  green  turf 
On  which  the  caged  lark  sang.     On  autumn  nights 
My  school-mates  loved  to  gather  at  a  forge, 
And  tell  their  stories  round  the  furnace  mouth. 
I  read  strange  legends  in  its  crimson  heart ; 
As  I  rehearsed  the  secrets  of  the  fire, 
I  felt  them  grow  towards  me,  drank  the  looks 
They  cast  round  to  the  dark  and  frowning  night 
That  stood  back  from  the  glare.    And  these  were  they 
Who  hustled  me  at  school,  who  drove  me  mad, 
Who  pelted  me  with  names  I     The  cowards  shook, 
And  I  smiled  proudly  in  my  secret  heart : 
I  saw  them  tremble,  and  I  struck  them  home. 

Upon  a  day  of  wind  and  heavy  rain 
A  crowd  was  huddled  in  the  porch  at  school : 
As  I  came  up  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out, 
"Ho,  ho  I  here  comes  the  lad  that  talks  with  ghosts 
Sitting  upon  the  graves."    They  laughed  and  jeered, 
And  gathered  round  me  in  a  mocking  ring, 
And  hurt  me  with  their  faces  and  their  eyes. 
With  bitter  words  I  smote  them  in  my  hate, 
As  with  a  weapon.     A  sudden  blow,  and  wrath 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  87 

Sprang  upward  like  a  flame.     I  struck,  and  blood, 

Brighter  than  rubies,  gleamed  upon  my  band  ; 

And  at  the  beauteous  sight,  from  head  to  heel 

A  tiger's  joy  ran  tingling  through  my  veins, 

And  every  finger  hungered  for  a  throat. 

I  burst  the  broken  ring,  and  darted  off 

With  my  blood  boiling,  and  my  pulses  mad. 

I  did  not  feel  the  rain  upon  my  face  ; 

With  burning  mouth  I  drank  the  cooling  wind  ;  — 

And  then,  as  if  my  limbs  were  touched  by  death, 

A  shudder  shook  me,  all  the  rage  that  sprang 

Like  sudden  fire  in  a  deserted  house, 

Making  the  windows  fierce,  had  passed  away ; 

And  the  cold  rain  beat  heavy  on  me  now  ; 

The  winds  went  through  me. 

At  the  dead  of  night 
Fever  beset  me  with  a  troop  of  fiends  ; 
They  hid  in  every  crevice  of  the  house, 
And  called  me  with  the  voices  of  my  mates, 
And  mocked  me  when  I  came.     They  made  me  blind, 
And  led  me  out  to  stumble  among  pits, 
And  smote  me  in  my  blackness.     Oft  they  hung 
Me  o'er  the  edges  of  the  dizzy  steeps, 
And  laughed  to  see  me  swinging  in  the  wind  ; 
And  then  a  blast  would  whirl  me  like  a  leaf, 
From  my  frail  hold  out  to  the  peopled  air, 
Where  dark  hands  plucked  at  me  and  dragged  me 
down. 


CITY   POEMS. 

I  lay  in  darkness  'neath  a  weight  of  chains,  — 
A  burst  of  day,  and  lo  !  a  mighty  sea 

Of  upturned  faces  murmured,  heaved,  and  swayed 
Around  to  see  me  die.     Methought  I  fled 
Along  the  road  of  death.     Methought  I  heard 
My  mother  calling  from  the  life  I  left, 

II  Come  back,  come  back,  come  back  unto  my  love  !  " 
"  Whistle  the  'scaped  bird  from  the  summer  woods 
Back  to  the  spoiler's  hand,"  I  thought,  and  laughed, 
And  every  cry  grew  fainter  as  I  ran. 

I  paused  upon  a  drear  bewildered  road, 

Lined  with  dark  trees,  or  ghosts,  which  only  seemed 

A  darker  gloom  in  gloom,  and,  far  away, 

A  glare  went  up  as  of  a  sunken  fire. 

"  This  is  the  land  of  death,  and  that  is  hell," 

I  cried,  as  I  went  on  toward  the  glare. 

I  climbed  a  bank  of  gloom,  and  there  I  saw 

A  burning  sea  upon  a  burning  shore, 

A  lone  man  sitting  black  against  the  light, 

His  long  black  shadow  stretching  o'er  the  sands, 

Long  as  earth's  sunset  shades.     Then  all  at  once, 

Like  landscapes  in  the  red  heart  of  a  fire, 

The  vision  crumbled,  and  methought  I  stood 

Beside  an  ancient  and  unused  canal, 

Choked  with  great  stems  and  monstrous  leaves,  and 

filled 
With  olive-colored  water  thick  as  oil. 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  89 

All  here  and  there  't  was  patched  and  skinned  with 

green, 

The  cream  of  idle  years.     Upon  the  green, 
There  blushed  and  glowed  a  dewy  crimson  rose,  — 
Some  hand  had  thrown  it  scarce  an  hour  ago. 
I  hurried  on,  that  I  might  overtake 
Whoe'er  had  passed  that  way.     I  stood  in  fear  — 
As  a  stream  flows  forever  past  a  tree, 
A  line  of  sable  shapes  came  winding  by 
With  downcast  eyes  and  cloaked  from  head  to  foot. 
Methought  I  stood  for  weeks,  and  months,  and  years, 
And  still  the  shapes  came  past.     My  horror  grew 
Until  I  burst  the  silence  with  a  cry  ; 
Then,  as  a  trail  of  smoke  is  torn  by  winds, 
The  long  line  wavered,  broke,  and  disappeared. 

At  length,  amid  the  phantoms  of  my  brain, 
A  kind  white  face  was  mixed.     It  came  and  went. 
Sometimes  it  slowly  stole  across  the  gloom, 
And  paused  to  gaze  on  me,  then  died  away ; 
And  sometimes  it  would  lean  above  my  couch, 
And  look  into  my  eyes.     As  once  it  came 
And  hung  above  me  for  a  silent  hour, 
I  raised  my  wasted  hand  and  touched  its  cheek : 
It  did  not  frown  on  me  ;  —  next,  bolder  grown, 
I  wandered  o'er  its  brow,  its  mouth,  its  hair, 
And  then  methought  it  smiled.     I  shrunk  in  fear, 


90  CITY   POEMS. 

Then   touched   the   cheek  again ;   and,  wondering, 

said, 

"  Surely  this  should  be  my  own  mother's  face  !  " 
And  dimly  felt  as  if  enclosed  in  arms, 
As  if  an  eager  mouth  were  pressed  to  mine. 
Delirium  slid  from  off  me  like  the  flood 
From  off  the  world,  and  slowly  I  awoke 
To  the  full  knowledge  of  my  mother's  love  :  — 
"  God  hath  returned  thee  from  the  gates  of  death, 
My  poor  tormented  child  !  "     That  hour  of  joy  I 
That  welcome  back  to  life  I     I  was  as  one 
Drawn  sorely  wounded  from  his  bed  of  blood 
'Mong  the  war-horses'  hoofs  ;  as  one  redeemed 
From  the  sea's  foamy  mouth,  or  arms  of  fire. 
And  in  the  progress  of  the  weary  days 
My  mother  sat  beside  my  bed,  and  told 
How  the  long  battle  swayed  'tween  life  and  death ; 
And  how  she  'tended  me,  and  how,  one  night, 
The  life  was  wavering  'tween  my  parted  lips, 
Loose  as  the  film  that  flutters  on  the  grate  ; 
And  how,  at  twelve,  she  thought  that  all  was  o'er. 
I  stood  within  the  street  one  April  day, 
Wan  as  a  healthless  primrose,  which  a  leaf 
Had  shaded,  that  it  could  not  drink  the  sun. 
I  lay  down  on  a  night  of  stormy  rain  ; 
The  snow  had  fallen,  and  the  world  was  dumb. 
Now,  showers  of  melody  from  unseen  larks 


A   BOY'S   POEJI.  91 

Fell  the  long  day  upon  the  golden  fields, 

And  the  bare  woods  were  putting  on  their  green. 

In  those  dark  days  I  was  surprised  with  joy 
The  deepest  I  have  found  upon  the  earth. 
One   night,    when  my   weak   limbs   were    drawing 

strength 

From  meats  and  drinks,  and  long  delicious  sleep, 
I  raised  a  book  to  kill  the  tedious  hours  — 
The  glorious  Dreamer's  —  he  whose  walls  enclosed 
An  emperor's  state  ;  upon  whose  lonely  sleep 
The  secret  heavens  opened,  peopled  thick 
With  angels,  as  the  beam  with  swirling  motes. 
I  was  like  one  who  at  his  girdle  wears 
An  idle  key,  and  with  it,  purposeless, 
In  the  mere  impulse  of  a  wayward  mood, 
Opes  a  familiar  door,  and  stands  amazed, 
Blind  with  the  prisoned  splendor  which  escapes, 
Filling  his  dusky  home.     From  earth's  rude  noise 
I  wandered  through  the  quiet  land  of  thought, 
Where  all  was  peaceful  as  the  happy  fields 
Wherein  the  shades  are  silent  with  deep  bliss, 
And  not  a  sound  doth  jar  the  golden  air. 
For  me  no  more  existed  space  or  time, 
Nor  in  my  narrow  being  did  I  live  ; 
That  miser  Death,  whose  lean  and  covetous  hand 
Hoards  up  the  pomps  and  glories  of  the  world, 


92  CITY   POEMS. 

Gave  up  his  treasures,  and  Experience 

Was  like  a  fenceless  common  over  which 

I  ranged  at  will.     And  so  I  have  the  noise 

Of  armies  round  me,  wear  the  monarch's  crown, 

Die  in  the  martyr's  fire.     Whatever  joy 

Or  sorrow  man  has  tasted,  that  I  share  ; 

Nor  can  my  life  be  measured  by  my  years. 

The  summer  had  been  cold,  the  harvest  wet, 
And  the  reaped  corn  lay  rotting  in  the  fields. 
Men  who  at  morning  stood  as  prosperous 
As  bearded  autumn,  were,  ere  sunset,  poor 
As  a  worn  scarecrow  fluttering  dingy  rags 
Within  the  feeble  wind.     Each  mouth,  the  boom 
Of  a  great  battle  travelled  on  the  wind, 
Smiting  the  hearers  pale.     Down  came  the  snow. 
7T  is  said,  the  blown  and  desperate  forester, 
Chased  by  a  lean  and  hunger-pinched  bear, 
Drops,  one  by  one,  his  garments  in  his  flight, 
To  make  the  monster  pause.     In  those  dark  months, 
My  weary  mother,  chased  by  poverty, 
Gave,  one  by  one,  her  treasures  — precious  things 
Hallowed  by  love  and  death  ;  yet  all  in  vain  : 
The  terror  followed  on  our  flying  heels. 
So,  on  a  summer  morning,  I  was  led 
Into  a  square  of  warehouses,  and  left 
'Mong  faces  merciless  as  engine-wheels.  — 


The  right  hand  learns  its  cunning,  and  the  feet 
That  tread  upon  the  rough  ways  of  the  world 
Grow  mercifully  callous.     Months  crept  past ; 
If  they  brought  bitterness,  why  then  complain  ? 
Will  Fate  relax  his  stern  and  iron  brows 
For  a  boy's  foolish  tears  ?     In  this  grim  world 
The  beggar  tosses  on  his  straw,  the  king 
Upon  his  velvet  bed.     Yet  a  few  steps, 
And  Death  will  lift  the  load  the  heavens  gave 
From  off  the  burdened  back.     I  now  can  look 
Upon  those  distant  years  with  calmer  eyes 
And  melancholy  pleasure.     Then  it  was 
Love  oped  the  dusky  volume  of  my  life, 
And  wrote,  with  his  own  hot  and  hurrying  hand, 
A  chapter  in  fierce  splendors.     Then  it  was 
I  built  an  altar  —  raised  a  flame  to  Love  ; 
And  a  strong  whirlwind  threw  the  altar  down, 
And  strewed  its  sparks  on  darkness. 

In  a  room, 

Quiet,  'mid  that  building  full  of  groaning  wheels, 
She  sat,  and  sang  as  merry  as  a  lark 
Whose  cage  is  shining  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
Laughed,  like  a  happy  fountain  in  a  cave 
Brightening  the  gloomy  rocks.     O'er  costly  gauze 
Her  busy  twinkling  fingers  moved,  —  like  Spring's, 
Flowers  grew  beneath  their  touch.     How  I  began 
To  love  her  first  is  now  to  me  unknown 


94  CITY   POEMS. 

As  how  I  came  from  nothingness  to  life. 
Her  frequent  duties  led  her  through  our  room  ; 
I  thrilled,  when  through  the  noises  of  the  day 
I  caught  her  door,  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
Her  coming  footstep.    0  !  that  little  foot 
Did  more  imperiously  stir  my  blood 
Than  the  heart-shaking  trumpets  of  a  king 
Heard  through  the  rolling,  ever-deepening  shout, 
When  houses,  peopled  to  the  chimney-tops, 
Lean  forward,  eager  for  the  coming  sight. 
She  flew  across  our  room  with  sudden  gleam, 
Like  bird  of  Paradise.     Sometimes  she  paused, 
And  tossed  amongst  us  a  few  crumbs  of  speech, 
Or  pelted  us  in  sport  with  saucy  words, 
Then  vanished,  like  a  star  into  a  cloud. 
Love's  magic  finger  touched  my  ear  and  eye  ; 
And  music,  which  before  was  but  a  sound, 
Now  something  far  more  passionate  than  myself 
Spake  trembling  of  her  beauty  ;  and  the  world 
Folded  around  me  fragrant  as  a  rose. 

;T  was  prime  of  May  ;  and  every  square  became 
A  murmuring  camp  of  Summer.     Now  and  then 
A  dizzy  and  bewildered  butterfly 
Fluttered  through  noisy  streets.    A  week  was  mine, 
To  wander  uncontrolled  as  cloud  or  breeze. 
The  eve  before  I  went,  there  came  a  thirst 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  95 

Upon  me  for  her  presence.     Long  I  stood, 

My  hand  upon  her  door,  my  fearful  heart 

Loud  in  my  ears.     I  heard  her  sweet  "  Come  in," 

And  entered.     She  was  standing  in  the  light, 

Upgathering,  in  the  bondage  of  the  comb, 

Her  glorious  waves  of  hair.     She  welcomed  me 

With    dazzling  laughter:  —  "  0,  I'm  glad  you've 

come ! 

See  this  rich  present  sleeping  in  its  folds  I 
Do  tell  me  how  I  look."     The  crimson  scarf 
She  wreathed  around  her  shoulders  and  her  head, 
Till  her  sweet  face  was  set  and  framed  in  silk  ; 
And  then,  a  very  sunbeam  in  my  eyes, 
She  stood  and  smiled  ;  soon  with  a  sullen  lip 
She  stripped  the  glowing  silk  from  neck  and  head, 
And  threw  it  down  ;  then  clapped  her  tiny  hands, 
And,  round  me  standing  in  a  marsh  of  doubt, 
She  danced  like  elfin  fire.     "  In  dream  "  (I  spoke, 
Bewildered  by  her  sunshine  and  her  shade), 
"  I  saw  a  rose  of  such  a  breadth  and  glow, 
It  seemed  as  it  had  sucked  into  its  heart 
All  fragrance,  sun,  and  color,  and  had  left 
Its  poor  defrauded  sisterhood  to  hang 
Their  pale  heads  scentless  in  the  careless  wind  ; 
But  ere,  with  happy  hand,  I  plucked  the  rose  — 
A  summer  in  itself —  and  brought  it  thee, 
I  woke  to  barren  midnight." — "Bah  I "    She  turned, 


96  CITY   POEMS. 

And  froze  my  speech  to  silence  with  a  look. 
"  In  dreamland  you  have  very  vast  estates, 
Not  worth  an  ear  of  corn.'7     At  her  disdain 
Laughing  outright,  I  said,  "  The  scornful  flag 
That  flouts  by  day  and  night  besieging  foes, 
Falls  in  their  hands.     I  came  to  say  good-by." — 
"Well." 

"  I  leave  the  city  for  some  days  ;  and  thought 
That  you  might  like  —  " 

"What?" 

"  To  see  me  ere  I  went." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  that  Harry,  Charles,  and  you, 
Would  go  and  ne'er  return.     I  'm  sure  your  backs 
Are  fairer  than  your  faces." 

"Poor  little  god! 

Weary  of  incense  ;  most  unhappy  rose, 
Plagued  with  enamored  bees  —  too  innocent 
To  blame  its  own  sweet  breath  !     A  lover  slay, 
And  hang  him  up  within  your  beauty's  field, 
As  the  gruff  husbandman  hangs  up  a  crow 
To  warn  his  brethren  off." 

The  sunlight  flashed 
Into  her  face.     She  heaved  a  little  sigh, 
And  dropped  her  eyelids  down  upon  her  cheek, 
Though  all  the  while  the  rogues  laughed  'neath  their 
shades, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  97 

And  a  smile  played  and  flickered  round  her  mouth 
So  rosily  demure. 

";T  were  little  use. 

'Tis  very  hard  to  know  which  way  to  turn. 
A  lover  is  as  stupid  as  the  fish 
That,  with  a  broken  barb  within  its  gills, 
Leaps  at  another  bait.     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Down  the  long  river,  past  the  fortressed  rock 
To  that  fair  island  in  the  sparkling  sea, 
Across  whose  face  through  all  the  scented  hours 
Change  melts  in  finer  change,  from  clear  green  light 
To  purple  thunder-gloom.     She  's  courted,  too  — 
For  when  she  smiles  the  proud  and  dimpled  sea 
Fawns  on  her  fringe  of  flowers  ;  and  when  she  frowns 
Gone  are  his  flickering  waves  and  miles  of  light, 
Gray  is  his  only  wear." 

"  And  when  return  ?  " 
"  On  Saturday." 

"  I  '11  look  for  flowers.     Could  not 
You  come  on  Friday  ?  " 

"  Wherefore  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  0,  nothing,  nothing  ;  but  I  know  you  will. 
Now  won't  you  say  you  '11  come  ?  " 

"  And  my  reward  ?  " 
7 


98  CITY   POEMS. 

"  Ah,  must  I  buy  your  favors  ?    Then  I  '11  let 
You  place  the  fairest  rose  of  all  your  wreath 
Amid  my  hair." 

"  Where  it  will  deeper  glow 
With  pride,  than  when  it  sat  upon  its  stem, 
And  drank  ambrosial  air." 

"  Thou  mocker  I  " 

As  I  went, 
She  laughed  and  called  me  back.  —  "  True  flowers, 

you  know  ; 

Not  those  pale  moonlight  things  that  grow  so  thick 
In  gardens  of  your  dreams  ;  which  might  be  given 
By  ghost  to  ghost,  in  some  serene  farewell, 
For  a  love-token  and  remembrancer 
To  look  on  in  the  shades.     True  flowers  I  want 
To  blush  in  mortal  hair."     I  left  her  light, 
As  happy  as  a  serf  who  leaves  his  king 
Ennobled,  and  possessed  of  broader  lands 
Than  the  great  rain-cloud  trailing  from  the  fens 
Can  blacken  with  his  shadow. 

PART  H. 

THE  morn  rose  blue  and  glorious  o'er  the  world  ; 
The  steamer  left  the  black  and  oozy  wharves, 
And  floated  down  between  dark  ranks  of  masts. 
We  heard  the  swarming  streets,  the  noisy  mills  ; 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  99 

Saw  sooty  foundries  full  of  glare  and  gloom, 

Great  bellied  chimneys  tipped  by  tongues  of  flame, 

Quiver  in  smoky  heat.     We  slowly  passed 

Loud  building-yards,  where  every  slip  contained 

A  mighty  vessel  with  a  hundred  men 

Battering  its  iron  sides.     A  cheer  !  a  ship 

In  a  gay  flutter  of  innumerous  flags 

Slid  gayly  to  her  home.     At  length  the  stream 

Broadened  'tween  banks  of  daisies,  and  afar 

The  shadows  flew  upon  the  sunny  hills  ; 

And  down  the  river,  'gainst  the  pale  blue  sky, 

A  town  sat  in  its  smoke.     Look  backward  now ! 

Distance  has  stilled  three  hundred  thousand  hearts, 

Drowned  the  loud  roar  of  commerce,  changed  the 

proud 

Metropolis,  which  turns  all  things  to  gold, 
To  a  thick  vapor  o'er  which  stands  a  staff 
With  smoky  pennon  streaming  on  the  air. 
Blotting  the  azure  too,  we  floated  on, 
Leaving  a  long  and  weltering  wake  behind. 
And  now  the  grand  and  solitary  hills 
That  never  knew  the  toil  and  stress  of  man, 
Dappled  with  sun  and  cloud,  rose  far  away. 
My  heart  stood  up  to  greet  the  distant  land 
Within  the  hollows  of  whose  mountains  lochs 
Moan  in  their  restless  sleep  ;  around  whose  peaks, 
And  craggy  islands  ever  dim  with  rain, 


100  CITY   POEMS. 

The  lonely  eagle  flies.     The  ample  stream 

Widened  into  a  sea.     The  boundless  day 

Was  full  of  sunshine  and  divinest  light, 

And  far  above  the  region  of  the  wind 

The  barred  and  rippled  cirrus  slept  serene, 

With  combed  and  winnowed  streaks  of  faintest  cloud 

Melting  into  the  blue.     A  sudden  veil 

Of  rain  dimmed  all ;  and  when  the  shade  drew  off, 

Before  us,  out  toward  the  mighty  sun, 

The  firth  was  throbbing  with  glad  flakes  of  light. 

The  mountains  from  their  solitary  pines 

Ran  down  in  bleating  pastures  to  the  sea  ; 

And  round  and  round  the  yellow  coasts  I  saw 

Each  curve  and  bend  of  the  delightful  shore 

Hemmed  with  a  line  of  villas  white  as  foam. 

Far  off,  the  village  smiled  amid  the  light ; 

And  on  the  level  sands  the  merriest  troops 

Of  children  sported  with  the  laughing  waves, 

The  sunshine  glancing  on  their  naked  limbs. 

White  cottages,  half  smothered  in  rose-blooms, 

Peeped  at  us  as  we  passed.     We  reached  the  pier, 

Whence  girls  in  fluttering  dresses,  shady  hats, 

Smiled  rosy  welcome.     An  impatient  roar 

Of  hasty  steam  ;  from  the  broad  paddles  rushed 

A  flood  of  pale  green  foam,  that  hissed  and  freathed 

Ere  it  subsided  in  the  quiet  sea. 

With  a  glad  foot  I  leapt  upon  the  shore, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  (/,  K«Jl  '• 


And,  as  I  went,  the  frank  and  lavish  winds 
Told  me  about  the  lilac's  mass  of  bloom, 
The  slim  laburnum  showering  golden  tears, 
The  roses  of  the  gardens  where  they  played. 

At  eve  I  lay  in  utter  indolence 
Upon  a  crag's  high  heather-purpled  head. 
The  sun  hung  o'er  a  sea  of  wrinkled  gold, 
And  o'er  him  fleecy  vapor,  rack  of  cloud, 
And  thin  suspended  mists  hung  tremulous 
In  fiery  ecstasy  ;  while  high  in  heaven, 
Discerned  afar  between  the  crimson  streaks, 
And  melting  away  toward  the  lucid  east, 
Like  clouds  of  cherubs  tiny  cloudlets  slept 
In  soft  and  tender  rose.     When  I  returned, 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
And  from  the  houses  of  the  rich,  there  came 
Low-breathing  music  through  the  balmy  gloom  : 
Linked  lovers  passed  me,  lost  in  murmurous  talk  : 
That  fragrant  night  of  happiness  and  love 
My  soul  closed  o'er  its  secret  like  a  rose 
That  sates  itself  with  its  own  heart  of  bliss. 
That  fragrant  night  of  happiness  and  love 
She  seemed  to  lie  within  my  heart  and  smile. 
The  village  lights  were  sprinkled  on  the  hill ; 
And  on  the  dim  and  solitary  loch 
Our  oar-blades  stirred  the  sea  to  phantom  light, 


;;.,;,-.  CITY  roEais. 

A  hoary  track  ran  glimmering  from  the  keel. 

Like  scattered  embers  of  a  dying  fire, 

The  village  lights  had  burnt  out  one  by  one  ; 

I  lay  awake,  and  heard  at  intervals 

A  drowsy  wave  break  helpless  on  the  shore, 

Trailing  the  rattling  pebbles  as  it  washed 

Back  to  the  heaving  gloom.     "  Come,  blessed  Sleep, 

And  with  thy  fingers  of  forgetfulness 

Tie  up  my  senses  till  the  day  we  meet, 

And  kill  this  gap  of  time."     By  sweet  degrees 

My  slumberous  being  closed  its  weary  leaves 

In  drowsy  bliss,  and  slowly  sank  in  dream, 

As  sinks  the  water-lily  ;neath  the  wave. 

Next  morning  I  rose  early  and  looked  forth : 
The  quiet  sky  was  veiled  with  dewy  haze, ; 
Beneath  it  slept  the  dull  and  beamless  sea ; 
The  flowers  hung  dim  and  sodden  in  the  dew  ; 
Strange  birds  fed  in  the  walks,  and  one  unseen 
Sang  from  the  apple-tree.     I  dressed  in  haste  ; 
And  when  the  proud  sun  fired  the  dripping  pines 
I  wandered  forth,  and  drank  with  thirsty  eyes 
The  coolness  of  the  sun-illumined  brooks 
In  which  the  quick  trout  played.   The  speckless  light, 
The  beauty  of  the  morning,  drew  me  on 
Into  a  gloomy  glen.     The  heavy  mists 
Crept  up  the  mountain  sides  :  I  heard  the  streams ; 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  103 

The  place  was  saddened  with  the  bleat  of  sheep. 
"  'T  is  surely  in  such  lonely  scenes  as  these 
Mythologies  are  bred.     The  rolling  storms  — 
The  mountains  standing  black  in  mist  and  rain, 
With  long  white  lines  of  torrents  down  their  sides  — 
The  ominous  thunder  creeping  up  the  sky  — 
The  homeless  voices  at  the  dead  of  night 
Wandering  among  the  glens  —  the  ghost-like  clouds 
Stealing  beneath  the  moon  —  are  but  as  stuff 
Whence  the  awe-stricken  herdsman  could  create 
Gods  for  his  worship.''     Then,  as  from  a  cup, 
Morn  spilt  warm  sunshine  down  the  mountain-side. 
Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  woke  somewhere  in  the  light ; 
I  started  at  the  sound,  and  cried,  "  0  Voice  ! 
I  've  heard  you  often  in  the  poet's  page  — 
Now,  in  your  stony  wilds  —  and  I  have  read 
Of  white  arms  clinging  round  a  sentenced  neck 
Upon  a  morn  of  death  ;  of  bitter  wrong 
Freezing  sweet  love  to  hate ;  of  fond  ambition 
Which  plaits  and  wears  a  wretched  crown  of  straw, 
And  dreams  itself  a  king ;  of  inward  shame, 
To  which  a  lingering  and  long-drawn  death 
Were  bed  of  roses,  incense,  and  a  smile. 
With  anxious  heart  I  hear  my  distant  hours 
Gather  like  far-off  thunder.     Canst  thou  tell 
What  things  await  me  on  my  road  of  life 
As  did  your  floating  voice  ?  "     Behold  the  sea  I 


104  CITY   POEMS. 

Far  flash  its  glittering  leagues,  and  'neath  the  sun 

There  gleams  from  coast  to  coast  a  narrow  line 

Of  blinding  and  intolerable  light. 

I  lay  beneath  a  glimmering  sycamore 

Drowsy  with  murmuring  bees.  —  As  9*er  my  limbs 

There  palpitated  countless  lights  and  shades, 

I  heard  the  quiet  music  of  the  waves, 

And  saw  the  great  hills  standing  dim  in  heat. 

At  height  of  noon  a  gloomy  fleece  of  rain 
Was  hanging  o'er  the  zenith.     On  it  crept, 
Drinking  the  sunlight  from  a  hundred  glens  ; 
Blackening  hill  by  hill ;  smiting  the  sea's 
Bright  face  to  deadly  pallor  ;  till  at  last 
It  drowned  the  world  from  verge  to  verge  in  gloom, 
A  sky-wide  blinding  glare  —  the  thunder  burst  — 
Again  heaven  opened  in  a  gape  of  flame  ; 
Heavy  as  lead  came  down  the  loosened  rain  — 
I  heard  it  hissing  in  the  smoking  sea  ; 
It  slackened  soon,  the  sun  blazed  through,  and  then 
The  fragment  of  a  rainbow  in  the  gloom 
Burned  on  the  rainy  sea  —  a  full-sailed  ship 
Apparent  stood  within  the  glorious  light 
From  hull  to  highest  spar.     The  tempest  trailed 
His  shadowy  length  across  the  distant  hills  : 
The  birds  from  hiding-places  came  and  sang, 
And  ocean  laughed  for  miles  beneath  the  sun. 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  105 

I  and  my  cousins  started  in  the  morn 
To  wander  o'er  the  mountains  and  the  moors. 
How  different  from  the  hot  and  stony  streets  ! 
The  dark  red  springy  turf  was  'neath  our  feet, 
Our  walls  the  blue  horizon,  and  our  roof 
The  boundless  sky  ;  a  perfect  summer-day 
We  walked  'mid  unaccustomed  sights  and  sounds  ; 
Fair  apparitions  of  the  elements 
That  lived  a  moment  on  the  .air,  then  passed 
To  the  eternal  world  of  memory. 
O'er  rude  unthrifty  wastes  we  held  our  way 
Whence  never  lark  rose  upward  with  a  song, 
Where  no  flower  lit  the  marsh  :  the  only  sights, 
The  passage  of  a  cloud  —  a  thin  blue  smoke 
Far  on  the  idle  heath  —  now  caught,  now  lost, 
The  pink  road  wavering  to  the  distant  sky. 
At  noon  we  rested  near  a  mighty  hill, 
That  from  our  morning  hut  slept  far  away 
Azure  and  soft  as  air.     Upon  its  sides 
The  shepherds  shouted  'mid  a  noise  of  dogs  ; 
A  stream  of  sheep  came  slowly  trickling  down, 
Spread  to  a  pool,  then  poured  itself  in  haste. 
The  sun  sunk  o'er  a  crimson  fringe  of  hills  : 
The  violet  evening  filled  the  lower  plain, 
From  which  it  upward  crept  and  quenched  the  lights. 
A  while  the  last  peak  burned  ia  lingering  rose, 
And  then  went  out.     We  toiled  at  dead  of  night 


106  CITY   POEMS. 

Through  a  deep  glen,  the  while  the  lonely  stars 
Trembled  above  the  ridges  of  the  hills  ; 
And  in  the  utter  hush  the  ear  was  filled 
With  low  sweet  voices  of  a  thousand  streams, 
Some  near,  some  far  remote  —  faint  trickling  sounds 
That  dwelt  in  the  great  solitude  of  night 
Upon  the  edge  of  silence.     A  sinking  moon 
Hung  on  one  side,  and  filled  the  shattered  place 
With  gulfs  of  gloom,  with  floating  shades,  and  threw 
A  ghostly  glimmer  on  wet  rock  and  pool. 

Then  came  a  day  of  deep  and  blissful  peace, 
In  which  familiar  thoughts  and  images 
By  which  we  know  and  recognize  ourselves 
Fell  from  me,  and  I  felt  as  new  and  strange 
As  a  free  spirit  which  has  shaken  off 
The  wrappings  of  this  life.     Upon  a  stair, 
The  remnant  of  the  tower,  I  sat  and  watched 
Tumultuous  piles  of  cloud  upon  the  hills, 
The  sea-mew  sweeping  silent  as  a  dream, 
The  black  rocks  ringed  with  white,  the  creeping  sail, 
The  wandering  greens  and  purples  of  the  sea. 
We  heard  the  people  singing  in  the  hay, 
A  single  girl-voice  leading,  all  the  field 
Bursting  in  chorus  ;  a  little  off,  the  Laird, 
Upon  his  shaggy  pony  of  the  isles, 
Drew  rein  and  heard  the  legend  of  his  house. 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  107 

At  eventime  the  mighty  barn  was  cleared, 
The  torches  lit,  the  lads  and  lasses  came, 
And  to  the  yelling  pipes,  in  loop  and  chain, 
And  whirling  circles,  spun  the  maddened  reels. 

Tradition  murmured  of  a  sullen  lake 
Imprisoned  in  the  solitary  hills 
Far  off.     We  talked  of  it  around  the  fire, 
Arranged  our  plans,  and  with  the  rising  sun 
Our  boat  was  half-way  o'er  the  narrow  loch. 
How  pure  the  morning  on  the  tremulous  deep ! 
Far  to  the  east  two  crimson  islands  burned 
Like  pointed  flames.     The  sea  was  clad  with  birds, 
The  air  was  resonant  with  mingled  cries, 
And  oft  a  dark  and  glutted  cormorant 
Flapped  'cross  our  path.     As  silent  as  a  ghost 
A  whale  arose  and  sunned  his  glistening  sides, 
Then  sank  as  still.     We  hung  above  the  bow, 
And  through  the  pale  green  water  clear  as  air, 
The  mighty  army  of  the  herrings  passed 
In  silvery  flash  on  flash.     The  glorious  main 
That  flowed  and  dimpled  round  the  morning  isles, 
Laughed  with  as  huge  a  joy  as  on  that  morn 
When  God  said  to  it,  "  Live  !  " 

The  gloomy  lake, 

Unvisited  by  sunbeam  or  by  breeze, 
Slept  on  the  ruined  shore.     High  up  in  heaven, 


108  CITY    POEMS. 

Rose  splintered  summits,  visited  alone 
By  the  loud  blackness  of  the  drowning  storms, 
The  momentary  meteors  of  the  air, 
The  solitary  stars  on  windless  nights, 
Sailing  across  the  chasms  :  there  they  stood 
In  stony  silence  in  the  sunny  noon, 
Crushed  by  the  tread  of  earthquake,  split  by  fire, 
Horrid  with  grisly  clefts  in  which  the  Spring 
Dared  never  laugh  in  green.     A  weary  cloud, 
Half  down,  had  lost  its  way  ;  an  eagle  hung, 
A  black  speck  in  the  sun.     We  raised  a  shout, 
A  sullen  echo  —  then  were  heard  the  sweet 
And  skiey  tones  of  spirits  'mid  the  peaks, 
Faint  voice  to  faint  voice  shouting  ;  dim  halloos 
From  unseen  cliff  and  ledge  ;  and  answers  came 
From  some  remoter  region  far  withdrawn 
Within  the  pale  blue  sky. 

On  our  return, 

Upon  a  shoulder  of  the  mountain  streamed 
The  sun's  last  gush  of  gold  :  above  our  heads 
The  arch  of  heaven  blushed  with  rippled  rose 
Back  to  the  gates  of  morning,  and  beneath, 
Each  lazy  undulation  of  the  deep 
Changed  like  a  pigeon's  neck.     Afar,  the  house 
Sat  like  a  white  shell  on  the  low  green  shore, 
And  storm-worn  cliffs,  though  inland  many  a  mile, 
Came  out  above  its  head.     As  on  we  sailed, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  109 

And  as  the  azure  night,  which  gathered  fast    . 
In  glen  and  hollow,  cooled  the  burning  sky, 
Stole  the  sleek  splendor  from  the  indolent  wave, 
Drew  o'er  the  world  a  veil  of  dewy  gray, 
The  boatmen  sang  the  music  of  the  land ; 
And,  in  its  sad  and  low  monotony, 
There  lived  the  desolation  of  the  waste, 
The  bitter  outcry  of  the  sweeping  blast, 
The  sob  of  ocean  round  the  iron  shores. 

Next  morning  we  came  early  'cross  the  moors', 
And  reached  again  the  village  by  the  sea. 

There  was  a  ruined  chapel  on  the  coast, 
And  by  it  lay  a  little  grassy  grave 
Still  as  a  couching  lamb.     The  people  told 
How,  years  ago,  a  gray-haired,  childless  man 
(His  name  is  still  remembered  by  the  world), 
Came  to  these  shores,  and  lay  down  there  to  rest 
Till  the  last  trumpet's  cry.     Near  it  I  sat 
On  my  last  afternoon  ;  and  while  the  wind 
Chequered  my  page  with  shadows  of  the  grass, 
I  wrote  this  love-song  sitting  by  the  grave, 
Nor  smiled  to  think  that  so  ran  on  the  world. 

"  Mary,  Mary,  sweetest  name  I 
Linked  with  many  a  poet's  fame. 


110  CITY   POEMS. 

A  Mary,  with  meek  eyes  of  blue, 
And  low  sweet  answers,  gently  drew 
The  weary  Christ  to  Bethany, 
When  no  home  on  earth  had  He. 

"  When  first  I  saw  your  tender  face, 

Saw  you,  loved  you  from  afar, 
My  soul  was  like  forlornest  space 

Made  sudden  happy  by  a  star. 
I  heard  the  lark  go  up  to  meet  the  dawn, 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  splendid  sea  ; 
Through  this  long  day  hast  thou  had  one,  but  one 

Poor  thought  of  me  ? 

"  0  happiest  of  isles  I 

In  every  garden  blows 

The  large  voluptuous-bosomed  rose 
For  musky  miles  and  miles. 
I  wander  round  this  garden  coast ; 

I  see  the  glad  blue  waters  run  ; 
In  the  light  of  Thy  beauty  I  am  lost, 

As  the  lark  is  lost  in  the  sun. 

"  0  heart !  H  was  thine  own  happiness  that  gave 
The  beauty  which  has  been  upon  the  earth, 
The  glory  stretching  from  day's  golden  birth 
Unto  his  crimson  grave. 


A  BOY'S   POEM.  HI 

From  thee  is  every  sight ; 

From  thee  the  splendor  of  the  firth, 
The  banquet  of  the  morning  light. 

11  Yet,  Love,  thy  very  happiness  alarms  I 

To  be  beloved  is  something  so  divine, 

I  dare  not  hope  it  can  be  mine. 
My  heart  is  stirring  like  a  nest  with  young  — 

I  know  that  many  and  many  a  former  brood 
Were  robbed  by  cruel  fate,  and  never  sung 

Within  a  summer  wood. 
Something  forbodes  me  pain  ; 

The  image  of  my  fear  — 
A  maypole  standing  in  the  mocking  rain 

With  garlands  torn  and  sere  1 

11  To-day  I  chanced  to  pass 
A  church-yard  covered  with  forgetful  grass  ; 
And  as  one  puts  the  hair  from  off  a  face, 

I  put  aside  the  grass  ;  and,  on  the  stones, 

Saw  roses  wreathing  bones  : 
And,  in  the  rankest  corner  of  the  place, 
Set  in  a  ghastly  scroll  of  skulls  and  flowers, 
And  belts  of  serpents  twined  and  curled, 

I  traced  a  crowned  and  mantled  Death, 
Asleep  upon  a  World. 
How  grim  the  carver's  style  — 


112  CITY  POEMS. 

The  tarnished  coffins,  rotten  palls, 
The  weeping  of  the  charnel  walls,  — 

When  one  is  lord  of  happy  hours, 

When  one  is  breathing  priceless  breath  — 

Made  happy  by  a  smile  I 

"  The  sheep  they  leap  in  golden  parks  ; 

My  blood  is  bliss,  my  heart  is  pleasure  ; 
Then  let  my  song  flow  like  a  lark's 

Above  his  nested  treasure. 
What  care  I  for  the  circling  cup  ? 

What  care  I  for  applausive  breath  ? 
For  the  stern  secret  folded  up 

In  the  closed  hand  of  Death  ? 
Bring  me  Love's  honeyed  nightshade  ;  fill  it  high  ; 

I  know  its  madness,  all  its  wild  deceit ; 
I  know  the  anguish  of  the  morning  sky 

When  brain  and  eyeballs  beat. 
I  cannot  throw  it  down  and  fly  — 

The  poison  is  so  sweet 
That  I  must  drink  and  drink,  although  I  die." 

The  thought  of  the  to-morrow  was  a  goad 
That  urged  me  forth  along  the  lonely  shore : 
Alone  I  wandered  through  the  breathless  gloom, 
Feeding  upon  the  honey  of  my  heart 
With  a  strange  thrill  of  fear.     While  on  I  walked, 


A   BOY'S   POEM.  113 

As  if  the  sea  would  fain  delay  my  steps, 

Out  of  the  darkness  rushed  a  ghostly  fringe 

Wailing,  and  licked  my  feet,  and  then  withdrew. 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  melancholy  one  ? 

What  prophecy  is  in  thy  voice  to-night  ? 

What  evil  dost  thou  'bode  ?     Then,  o'er  my  head, 

To  a  low  breathing  wind  the  darkness  cracked, 

Rolled  to  a  crescent  shore  of  vapor,  washed 

By  a  blue  bay  of  midnight  keen  with  stars. 

The  moon  came  late,  and  quivered  on  the  waves  ; 

And,  far  away,  'tween  dim  horizons,  beds 

Of  restless  silver  shifted  on  the  sea. 

Home  by  the  margin  of  the  deep  I  went, 

And  sought  repose  ;  and  all  the  night  a  surge 

Mourned  bodefully  around  the  shores  of  sleep. 

I  plucked  my  flowers  before  the  dawn.     I  heard 
A  loud  bell  ringing  on  the  dewy  pier, 
And  went  on  board.     Away  the  vessel  sped, 
Leaving  a  foamy  track  upon  the  sea, 
A  smoky  trail  in  air.     We  touched,  half-way, 
A  melancholy  town,  that  sat  and  pined 
'Hong  weedy  docks  and  quays.  Thence  went  the  train; 
It  shook  the  sunny  suburbs  with  a  scream ; 
Skimmed  milk-white  orchards,  walls  and  mossy  trees 
One  sheet  of  blossom  ;  flew  through  living  rocks, 
Adown  whose  maimed  and  patient  faces  tears 
8 


114  CITY   POEMS. 

Trickle  forever  ;  plunged  in  howling-  gloom  ; 

Burst  into  blinding  day  ;  afar  was  seen 

The  river  gleaming  'gainst  a  wall  of  rain, 

A  moment  and  no  more  ;  for  suddenly 

Upflew  the  envious  and  earthen  banks, 

And  shut  all  out,  until  the  engine  slacked. 

Arnid  the  fiery  forges  and  the  smoke 

I  reached  the  warehouse.     At  the  accustomed  hour 

Of  rest  at  noon  I  stole  toward  her  room  ; 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear  a  sound 

For  my  loud  beating  heart.     With  troubled  hand, 

I  rested  on  the  door,  which  stood,  like  death, 

Between  my  soul  and  bliss.     It  oped  at  last 

On  a  bare  room  that  struck  me  with  a  chill. 

I  came  back  to  my  task  ;  I  dared  not  ask 

A  casual  question  ;  for  I  feared  each  one, 

By  only  turning  on  me  his  calm  eyes, 

Would  read  my  secret. 

On  that  afternoon, 

I  bore  a  message  to  the  upper  flats  : 
When  I  returned,  the  stairs  were  black  as  night : 
I  heard  two  girls  come  slowly  up  the  steps, 
Bearing  their  water-loads  :  they  laid  them  down, 
And  thus  I  heard  them  talking  in  the  dark. 

"  Again  to  work  so  late  !     The  second  time 
We  have  been  treated  so  within  the  month, 


A   BOY'S    POEM.  115 

And  now  the  nights  are  fine.     I  hate  that  wretch, 
Stealing  up  stairs  in  india-rubber  shoes, 
Creeping  from  room  to  room,  till,  ere  you  know, 
lie  is  beside  you  ;  in  each  corner  poking 
With  his  white  weasel  face.     He  cooks  his  meals 
Within  his  empty  house  ;  his  sole  companion 
A  wretched  cat  that  on  his  bounty  starves  — 
A  shadow,  like  himself. " 

"  His  brother,  too, 

The  upper  and  the  nether  millstone  they, 
And  we  are  ground  between.     Last  pay,  because 
I  was  one  morning  some  ten  minutes  late 
(Aunt  Martha  had  been  more  than  usual  ill)  — 
He  mulct  me  of  an  hour  —  a  glass  of  port, 
To  redden  in  his  nose  !     As  there  he  sat, 
Steaming  from  dinner,  and  struck  off  the  pence, 
If  I  had  only  pricked  him  with  my  needle, 
Old  Red-gills  had  bled  wine." 

"  Both  the  same  stuff. 
We  are  the  bees  that  labor  in  the  hive  ; 
They  eat  the  honey.     At  this  very  hour, 
Mary  will  ope  the  ball.     Would  I  were  there ! 
To-night  she  wears  the  scarf  that  Morris  gave. 
How  fond  she  seems  of  him  1 " 

"  At  dinner-time, 

She  bade  me  come  and  see  her  in  her  dress. 
Joy  stood  like  candles  in  her  mother's  eyes. 


116  CITY   POEMS. 

She  rose  up  in  her  robe  of  snowy  lace, 
Her  coal-black  hair,  which  all  the  men  admire, 
Rolled  up  with  pearls,  and  looked,  by  all  the  world, 
Like  a  white  waterfall.     Each  thing  she  wore, 
From  her  rich  head-dress  to  her  satin  foot, 
Was  given  to  her  by  him.     She  said  she  meant 
To  dress  her  head  with  living  flowers  ;  —  what  fun, 
To  use  the  roses,  by  one  lover  brought, 
To  turn  the  other's  brain  I  " 

"What  is  he  like  1" 

"  As  yellow  as  a  guinea.     Rich,  she  says  ; 
His  father  died  abroad.     He  is  so  mad, 
I  verily  believe,  to  please  a  whim, 
He'd  deck  her  out  in  richest  cloth  of  gold, 
And  slipper  her  with  silver." 

"I  only  hope 

That  all  may  prove  as  pleasant  as  it  seems. 
I  wish  I  were  among  them  standing  up, 
To  glide  off  to  the  music.  —  Something  stirs  I  " 

"Let  us  slip  in." 

Hope's  door  closed  with  a  clang.  *  *  I  rose  up  calm, 
Calm  as  a  country  when  the  storm  is  o'er, 
And  broken  boughs  are  hanging  from  the  trees, 
And  swollen  streams  have  crept  within  their  banks, 


A   BOY'S   POEM.  117 

Leaving  a  mighty  marge  of  wreck  and  sand 

Along  the  soppy  fields.     When  I  went  home, 

My  mother  dwelling  in  the  empty  house 

With  sorrow  for  a  husband,  like  reproach 

Struck  through  my  selfish  rage.     She  crept  to  bed, 

And,  from  the  barren  desert  of  the  night, 

Prayer,  like  a  choir  of  angels,  bore  her  up 

To  heaven,  where  she  talked  alone  with  God. 

I  ground  between  my  teeth,  "  The  day  has  come 

That  progressed  like  a  monarch  with  his  court ; 

Of  whose  approach  each  courier  hour  that  passed 

Brought  sweetest  tidings,  like  gay  winds  that  sing 

In  the  delighted  ears  of  sunny  May, 

Sitting  among  the  golden  buttercups. 

'  June,  drowned  with  roses,  comes  ; '  to  which  my 

thoughts 

Arose,  as  from  the  earth  a  thousand  larks, 
In  salutation  to  the  dawn.     And  now 
I  sit  degraded.     Palaces  of  dream 
Shivered  around  ;  uncounted  wealth  that  stuffed, 
This  morn,  the  coffers  of  my  heart,  all  false 
And  base  as  forgers'  coin. 

"  A  merchant  with  his  fortune  on  the  deep  — 
A  mother- with  her  brave  and  precious  boy 
Flung  where  the  wave  of  battle  breaks  in  death  — 
Ventures  no  more  than  we  do  when  we  love. 


118  CITY  POEMS. 

What  sweet  enchantments  hover  round  Love's  name  ! 

Far  out  to  sea,  from  off  her  syren  isles, 

Steal  wandering  melodies,  and  lie  in  wait 

To  lure  the  sailor  to  her  fatal  shores 

Within  the  crimson  sunset.     ;T  is  our  doom 

To  sit  unhappy  in  the  round  of  self. 

From  our  necessities  of  love  arise 

Our  keenest  heartaches  and  our  miseries. 

When  death  and  change  are  flying  in  the  sky, 

Our  spirits  tremble  like  a  nest  of  doves 

Beneath  the  falcon's  wing.     Each  time  we  love, 

We  turn  a  nearer  and  a  broader  mark 

To  that  keen  archer,  Sorrow,  and  he  strikes. 

0  that  the  heart  could,  like  a  housewife,  sit 

By  its  own  fire,  and  let  the  world  go  by 

Unheeded  as  the  stream  before  the  door ! 

Love  cannot  look  upon  a  dingy  cloud, 

But  straightway  there  's  a  rainbow  ;  and  we  walk 

Blind  with  a  fond  delusion  in  our  eyes, 

Which  paints  each  gray  crag,  rose.     Whene'er  we 

meet 

A  giddy  girl  —  a  mountain  beck  that  sings 
And  sparkles  from  its  shallowness,  ourselves 
Its  glorifying  sun,  —  her  heart  an  inn, 
Or  caravanserai  amid  the  sands, 
With  new  guests  every  night,  —  to  Love  she  gleams 
A  daughter  of  the  dawn.     She  flings,  in  sport, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  119 

The  jewel  of  our  happiness  away  : 

To  her,  —  each  bubble  blown  by  Idleness, 

Lolling  with  peacock's  feather  in  the  sun, 

An  ever-radiant  wonder,  — naught.     To  us, 

The  change  between  bright  Spring's  exuberant  lark, 

And  Autumn's  shy  and  solitary  bird  ; 

Instead  of  dancing  to  our  graves  in  sheen, 

Walking  in  sober  gray. 

"  A  growing  wind 

Flutters  my  sails,  and  my  impatient  prow 
Is  plunging  like  a  fiery  steed  reined  in ; 
It  hears  the  glee  of  billows.     Blow,  thou  wind, 
And  let  me  out  upon  my  seething  way, 
Crushing  the  waves  to  foam !     My  cooped-up  life 
Is  pained  by  fulness,  and  would  seek  relief 
In  reckless  effort.     When  the  heart  is  jarred, 
'T  is  vain  to  sit  and  feed  a  slothful  grief; 
Out  of  ourselves,  as  an  infected  house, 
We  come  ;  then  Nature  heals  —  she  is  our  guide. 
By  her  eternal  dial,  which  keeps  time 
With  the  invariable  and  dread  advance 
Of  midnight's  starry  armies,  must  we  set 
Our  foolish  wandering  hours.     Each  child  believes 
That  by  the  burning  nettle  ever  grows 
A  cool  assuaging  leaf.     Faith,  fair  and  true  — 
A  man  is  stung  by  sorrow,  and  his  cure 
Is  the  next  man  he  meets.     By  simple  love, 


120  CITY   POEMS. 

He  sits  down  at  his  feast,  tastes  all  his  joys, 
Yet  leaves  him  none  the  less. 

"Love,  unreturned, 

Hath  gracious  uses  ;  the  keen  pang  departs, 
The  sweetness  never.     Sorrow's  touch  doth  ope 
A  mingled  fount  of  sweet  and  bitter  tears, 
No  summer's  heat  can  dry,  no  winter's  cold 
Lock  up  in  ice.     When  music  grieves,  the  past 
Returns  in  tears.     The  red  and  setting  sun 
Is  beauty  indescribable,  and  leads 
The  heart  'mong  graves.      The  old  man  shuts  the 

door 

Of  his  still  soul,  and,  in  the  inmost  room, 
Sits  days  with  memory.     Gray  Adam,  roofed 
With  smoky  rafters  —  how  unlike  the  blue 
That  bent  o'er  Eden  !  —  forgets  Eve's  faded  face  — 
His  wandering  boy  —  his  eyes  are  far  away  ; 
And,  in  his  heart,  remembrance  sad  and  sweet, 
Of  Paradise  long  lost. 

"  As  a  wild  mother,  when  her  child  is  dead, 
Flings  herself  down  on  the  unheeding  face, 
And  pours  more  passionate  kisses  on  the  lips 
Than  when  they  kissed  again,  and  then  starts  up, 
And,  in  a  dreamy  luxury  of  grief, 
Strews  the  white  corse  with  flowers  ;  —  'I  '11  lay  thee 
out, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  121 

My  poor  dead  love,  and  fondlier  gaze  on  thee 
Than  when  thou  smiled  amid  thy  golden  hair, 
And  sang  more  sweet  than  Hope.  No  tears ;  for 

Death 

Saw  thee  when  loveliest,  and  his  icy  touch 
Preserves  thy  look  forever.     It  is  well : 
The  only  things  that  change  not  are  the  dead. 
Now  thou  art  safe  from  Time's  defacing  hand, 
From  staling  custom,  and,  sadder  far  than  all, 
From  human  fickleness.     In  after  years, 
It  might  be,  I  would  scarce  have  followed  thee, 
A  mourner  to  thy  grave.     Thou  art  so  fair, 
That,  gazing  on  thee,  clamorous  grief  becomes, 
For  very  reverence,  mute.     If  mighty  Death 
Made  our  rude  human  faces  by  his  touch 
Divinely  fair  as  thine,  0,  never  more 
Would  strong  hearts  break  o'er  biers  !    There  sleeps 

to-night 

A  sacred  sweetness  on  thy  silent  lips, 
A  solemn  light  upon  thine  ample  brow, 
That  I  can  never,  never  hope  to  find 
Upon  a  living  face.     Within  thy  grave 
I  '11  lay  thee  ;  and  above  will  memory  hang 
An  ever-mourning  willow ! ;  J 


122  CITY  POEMS. 


PART  III. 

A  DARK  hour  came,  and  left  us  desolate : 

Then,  as  a  beggar  thrust  by  menial  hands 

From  comfortable  doors,  doth  wrap  his  rags 

Around  him,  ere  he  face  the  whistling  wind 

And  flying  showers  that  travel  through  the  night, 

We  gathered  what  we  had  ;  and  she  and  I 

Went  forth  together  to  the  cruel  world. 

0,  we  were  bare  and  naked  as  the  trees 

That  stand  up  silent  in  the  freezing  air, 

With  black  boughs  motionless  against  the  sky, 

While  midnight  holds  her  lonely  starry  sway  ! 

We  crept  into  a  half-forgotten  street 
Of  frail  and  tumbling  houses  propt  by  beams, 
And  ruined  courts  which,  centuries  before, 
Rung  oft  to  iron  heels,  —  which  palfreys  pawed, 
As  down  the  mighty  steps  the  Lady  came 
Bright  as  the  summer  morning, — peopled  now 
By  outcasts,  sullen  men,  bold  girls  who  sat 
Pounding  sand  in  the  sun.     The  day  we  came 
The  windows  from  which  beauty  leant  and  smiled 
Were  stuffed  with  rags,  or  held  a  withered  stick 
Whence  foul  clothes  hung  to  dry.     Beneath  an  arch 
Two  long-haired  women  fought ;  while  high  above, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  123 

Ilcads  thrust  through  broken  panes,  two  shrill-voiced 

crones 

Scolded  each  other.     Hell-fire  burst  at  night 
Through  the  thin  rind  of  earth ;  the  place  was  laud 
With  drunken  strife,  hoarse  curses  ;  then  the  cry 
Of  a  lost  woman  by  a  ruffian  felled 
Made  the  blood  stop.    Ah  !  different  from  the  dream 
That  keeps  my  memory  fragrant  —  sunny  air, 
Stirred  into  drowsy  music  by  the  bees  ; 
Hollyhocks  glowing  at  the  open  door ; 
(  A  dark,  grave,  loving  face  ;  a  step  and  voice 
That  faded  in  that  time  !     We  dwelt  alone : 
Red  Autumn  died  unseen  along  the  waste, 
The  soundless  snow  came  down  in  thickening  flakes, 
And  Poverty,  who  sat  beside  our  hearth, 
Blew  out  the  feeble  fire,  and  all  was  dark. 

It  was  the  closing  evening  of  the  year, 
The  night  that  I  was  born.     I  laughed,  and  said, 
"  The  old  year  brought  me  in  his  dying  arms, 
And  laid  me  in  your  breast ;  his  last  task  done, 
He  went  away  through  whirls  of  blinding  snow." 
She  murmured,  "  'Tis  the  first  time  in  these  years 
We  cannot  hold  your  birth-night  as  our  wont, 
With  feast,  and  smiling  friends,  and  quiet  mirth 
O'ershadowed  by  the  memory  of  the  dead 
Until  'tis  almost  sad.     'T  is  sixteen  years, 


124  CITY   POEMS. 

And  every  night  I  've  looked  upon  your  sleep 

Although  you  knew  it  not.     Of  those  who  were 

Dear  to  me  on  the  night  that  you  were  born, 

You  only  now  remain."     I  knew  her  thoughts, 

"He  wearies  for  us  in  the  happy  fields  ; 

His  bliss  is  incomplete  till  we  are  there." 

My  mother  spoke  with  heart  far,  far  away. 

"  I  count  the  years,  as  eagerly  as  one 

Long  separated  from  the  friends  he  loves 

Counts  the  slow  milestones  as  he  travels  home. 

Your  life  is  all  before  you  with  its  joy  ; 

The  only  thing  I  covet  is  the  grave." 

She  kissed  me,  put  her  withered  hand  in  mine. 

Its  touch  brought  tears.     I  thought  of  all  the  pain, 

The  sorrow  which  had  grown  up  in  her  life 

Through  her  long  years  of  widowhood,  like  grass 

In  a  deserted  street.     Then  all  at  once 

A  hundred  church-bells  struck  the  hour  of  twelve  ; 

A  mighty  shout  went  up,  "  The  year  is  dead  !  " 

There  were  glad  footsteps  on  a  thousand  stairs, 

And  happy  greetings  in  a  thousand  homes  ; 

None  said,  God  bless  us.     Bitterly  I  cried, 

"  What  great  unpardoned  sin  is  on  our  race 

That  we  are  so  accursed  ?     Where'er  we  go, 

Calamity  glides  ever  in  our  track, 

A  ghost  implacable.     Were  I  to  die 

On  this  great  night  when  Christendom  is  glad, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  125 

I  would  be  all  unpitied  and  unknown, 

As  a  forgotten  captive,  or  a  worm 

That  dies  unheard  of  underneath  the  ground. " 

But  she  reproached  me  with  her  silent  eyes. 

The  sun  burst  forth ;    'neath  sheltering  cliff  and 

bank 

Lay  melting  wreaths,  which,  in  its  swift  retreat, 
The  army  of  the  snow  had  left.     Whene'er 
The  gloomy  Winter  round  him  called  his  showers, 
Legions  of  howling  winds,  and  with  a  cry 
Fled  to  the  icy  north,  the  timid  Spring 
Arose  in  snowdrops,  and  the  days  grew  long. 
Spring  touched  the  black  pots  on  my  window-sill, 
And,  though  begrimed  and  foul  with  dust  and  soot, 
The  blind  plants  felt  it  in  their  withered  veins, 
And  smiled  a  sickly  green.     One  Sabbath  day, 
I  left  my  mother's  dwelling  in  the  morn 
Behind  ;  the  pleading  and  the  scolding  bells 
Disturbed  the  peaceful  air.     "  'T  is  ever  so  — 
Religion's  pure  serene  is  vexed  and  torn 
By  raging  sectaries.     In  every  street 
The  brave  streams  of  the  proud  and  gaudy  world 
Flow  to  the  house  of  God.  — My  mother  sits 
With  vanished  shapes  and  faces  of  the  dead, 
And  little  pattering  footsteps  :  why  should  she, 
A  broken  heart  wrapt  up  in  faded  silk, 


126  CITY   POEMS. 

Mix  with  the  prosperous  ?     'T  is  very  well ; 

Let  the  white  faces  creep  into  their  graves, 

And  leave  pomp  in  the  sun."     The  shining  day 

Spread  out  before  me,  and  I  wandered  on 

Free  as  those  vagrant  children  of  the  waste, 

Shadow  and  sunshine.     By  the  sandy  banks 

Of  a  sunk  stream,  that  in  unnumbered  rills 

Tinkled  'tween  pebbles  and  hot  glistening  stones, 

Two  green  kingfishers  played.     A  travelling  shower 

Overtook  me  on  my  way  ;  I  stood  and  heard 

The  skylarks  singing  in  the  sunny  rain, 

With  a  dim  recognition  in  my  heart, 

As  if  I  knew  the  meaning  of  the  song 

In  some  forgotten  life.     I  reached  a  height 

Which  lay  from  fairy  fern  to  stately  tree 

Asleep  in  sunshine.     From  its  crown  I  saw 

The  country  fade  into  the  distant  sky, 

With  happy  hamlets  drowned  in  apple-bloom, 

And  ivy-muffled  churches  still  with  graves, 

And  restless  fires  subdued  and  tamed  by  day, 

And  scattered  towns  whence  came  at  intervals 

Upon  the  wind  a  sweet  clear  sound  of  bells  ; 

Through  all,  a  river,  like  a  stream  of  haze, 

Drew  its  slow  length  until  'twas  lost  in  woods. 

Still  as  a  lichened  stone  I  lay  and  watched 

The  lights  and  shadows  on  the  landscape's  face, 

The  moving  cloud  that  quenched  the  shining  fields, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  127 

The  gliding  sunbeam,  the  gray  trailing  shower, 
And  all  the  commerce  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
With  weary  limbs  at  sunset  I  returned ; 
And  in  the  dingy  fringes  of  the  town, 
The  helpless  languor  of  the  Sabbath-eve, 
The  listless  groups  that  stood  around  the  doors, 
The  silent  children,  and  the  smoke  that  rose 
Lazy  and  spiritless  into  the  air, 
Told  the  world's  sinews  had  been  overwrought 
And  now  hung  lax  and  loose.     My  spirits  fell, 
Sheer  as  a  skylark  when  his  song  is  o'er ; 
I  crept  into  my  little  twilight  room, 
And  there  my  day  of  glory  set  in  tears. 

Next  morn  the  bells  awoke  me  to  my  toil ; 
And  what  a  pageant  of  divinest  sights 
Passed  by  me  on  my  daily  round  of  life  ! 
I  bore  a  message,  and  upon  my  way 
The  streets  were  swept  by  the  impetuous  rain, 
The  lightning  fluttered  in  my  dazzled  eyes, 
And  thunder  like  a  sea  broke  overhead. 
A  fleece  of  thunder  hung  before  the  sun 
With  a  wild  blazing  fringe,  while  scattered  shreds 
Burned  on  the  marble  sky.     Black  strings  of  ships 
Sat  on  the  angry  mirror  of  the  stream 
Keen  with  the  splendor,  till  the  gusty  rain 
Drowned  the  red  sunset  and  the  winds  were  loud. 


128  CITY   POEMS. 

For  years  and  years  continually  were  mine 
The  long  dull  roar  of  traffic,  and  at  night 
The  mighty  pathos  of  the  empty  streets. 
I  leant  at  midnight  o'er  the  lonely  bridge, 
And  heard  the  water  slipping  'neath  the  arch : 
"  Man  flies  from  solitude  and  dwells  in  noise, 
Like  one  who  has  a  pale  wronged  face  at  home 
On  which  he  dares  not  look  ;  to  calm  his  heart 
The  world  must  roar  with  traffic,  brawl  with  war. 
What  need  to  strive  for  wealth,  opinion,  praise, 
Wherewith  to  drug  our  spirits  and  forget  ? 
Thou  bearest  in  thy  heart,  black  glittering  stream, 
A  deeper  rest  for  the  unfortunate 
Than  Pluto's  gold  can  buy.     Ah  !  Pleasure,  Fame, 
But  crown  pale  mortals  with  an  envied  pain  ; 
Death  pities,  and  gives  sleep.     A  thousand  years 
This  river  wandered  through  an  empty  waste 
Where  no  man's  voice   was   heard,    and  mournful 

winds 

Shook  sighing  sedges  as  they  swept  along, 
And  blurred  the  silver  of  the  lonely  moon. 
Huts  rose  upon  its  banks,  then  sank  in  flame, 
And  rose  from  ashes.     Slow  the  city  grew, 
Like  coral  reef  on  which  the  builders  die 
Until  it  stands  complete  in  pain  and  death. 
Great  bridges  with  their  coronets  of  lamps 
Light  the  black  stream  beneath  ;  rude  ocean's  flock, 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  129 

Ships  from  all  climes,  are  folded  in  its  docks  ; 

And  every  heart  from  its  great  central  dome 

To  farthest  suburb  is  a  darkened  stage 

On  which  Grief  walks  alone.     A  thousand  years  ! 

The  idle  Summer  will  amuse  herself 

Dressing  the  front  where  merchants  congregate, 

And  where  the  mighty  war-horse  snorts  in  bronze, 

With   clasping    flowers  ;    where   now   the   evening 

street 

Rolls  gay  with  life,  —  in  silence  and  the  dew 
The  hamadryad  issues  from  the  tree, 
Like  music  from  an  instrument. "     How  strange 
When  the  chill  morn  was  breaking  in  the  east 
Looked  the  familiar  streets  !     In  pallid  squares 
I  stood  awe-struck,  like  a  bewildered  soul 
In  the  great   dawn   of   death.       Each   house   was 

blind, 

Closed  'gainst  the  light,  and  slow  it  filled  the  street, 
Unsoiled  by  smoke,  unscared  by  any  sound  ; 
It  entered  trembling  rude  and  haggard  lanes 
Where  riot  but  an  hour  before  had  brawled 
Himself  to  rest.     St.  Stephen's  golden  vane 
Burned  in  the  early  beam,  which  glimmered  down, 
Making  the  old  spire  gay.     The  swallows  woke, 
And  jerked  and  twittered  in  the  shining  air  ; 
Broad  Labor  turned  and  muttered  in  his  sleep  ; 
And  the  first  morning  cart  began  to  roll. 


130  CITY  POEMS. 

I  saw  a  son  weep  o'er  a  mother's  grave  : 
"  Ay,  weep,  poor  boy  —  weep  thy  most  bitter  tears 
That  thou  shalt  smile  so  soon.     We  bury  Love, 
Forgetfulness  grows  over  it  like  grass  ; 
That  is  a  thing  to  weep  for,  not  the  dead." 
The  weeks  flew  on  and  beautified  my  grief: 
I  stood  within  a  torrent's  drenching  spray, 
Up  rose  the  sun,  with  happy  eyes  I  saw 
The  sounding  chasm  struck  with  precious  light, 
The  boiling  wreaths  transformed  to  sunny  mist 
On  which  an  iris  played.     A  little  child, 
Watching  the  fringe  of  radiance  o'er  the  hill, 
Stops  on  its  way  and  with  suspended  breath 
Awaits  the  golden  moon  ;  —  so  did  my  life 
Await  some  unknown  joy.     A  haunting  face 
Disturbed  me  with  its  beauty,  and  at  night 
It  looked  upon  me  through  the  roof  of  dreams ; 
My  heart  like  a  touched  harp-string  thrilled,  and  bliss 
Crept  through  my  veins  like  that  which  stirs  a  tree 
From  knotted  root  up  to  its  slenderest  spray 
Touched  by  the  hand  of  Spring.     One  night  alone 
I  sat  beside  the  dull  and  covered  fire, 
And  gave  myself  up  to  the  phantom  joy : 
Methought  I  heard  a  sound,  methought  it  came 
From  my  poor  mother's  room  ;  I  softly  crept, 
And  listened ;  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
I  heard  her  talk  with  God.  —  "  Thou  knowest  well 


A   BOY'S   POEM  131 

That  Sorrow  has  been  with  me  like  a  babe 

In  my  great  solitude,  till  I  have  come 

To  love  its  smileless  face.     Thou,  Love,  who  wrapt 

Thyself  in  flesh,  and  sat  a  while  disguised 

At  the  rude  feast  of  our  Humanity, 

And  tasted  every  sweet  and  bitter  there, 

Then  rose  and  unsuspected  went  away  ; 

Who  loved  the  humble  ones  at  Bethany  ; 

Who  wept  o'er  Lazarus,  and  with  thy  tears 

Comforted  all  the  family  of  grief 

In  every  time,  in  every  far-off  land  ;  — 

Thou,  infinite  Tenderness,  wilt  pardon  me 

If  my  heart  murmured  when  my  lips  were  still. 

Our  life  is  noble,  Thou  hast  breathed  its  air ; 

Death  sweet,  for  Thou  hast  died.     On  Thy  way  home 

One  night  thou  slept'st  within  the  dreadful  grave, 

And  took  away  its  fear.     0,  smile  on  me  ! 

The  world  and  I  have  done :  with  humble  heart 

I  sit  down  at  thy  glorious  gates  and  wait 

Till  death  shall  lead  me  in.     But  chiefly  bless 

My  poor  boy  left  alone  in  this  ill  world  : 

I  never  more  may  look  upon  his  face, 

May  never  hear  his  voice.     Thou  know'st  him  well, 

For  every  morning,  long  before  the  lurk 

Sang  at  Thy  shining  doors,  my  prayer  arose 

To  crave  Thy  blessing  on  his  restless  youth. 

It  is  the  evening  of  my  day  of  life, 


132  CITY   POEMS. 

I  have  been  working  from  the  early  dawn, 
Am  sore  and  weary ;  let  me  go  to  sleep,  — 
Let  me  stretch  out  my  limbs  and  be  at  rest 
In  the  untroubled  silence  of  the  grave." 
My  heart  swelled  like  a  man's,  who  after  years 
Wasted  in  riot  'neath  a  tropic  sky, 
Eeturns,  and  wandering  on  a  Sabbath-eve 
Bursts  into  tears  beside  a  twilight  church, 
Filled  with  a  psalm  which  he  knew  long  ago 
When  his  heart  too  was  pure. 

When  thunder  blots  the  sun, 
And  lays  a  hand  of  terror  on  the  herds, 
That  stills  the  bleating  on  a  hundred  hills, 
There  is  a  silence  over  all  the  land 
Waiting  the  fluttering  fire.     So  did  I  wait, 
And  swift  as  lightning  fell  the  blow  on  me. 
Reason  had  left  her  throne,  and  busy  dreams 
Made  a  wild  medley  of  the  day,  —  as  when 
Some  great  event  has  happened  in  the  tower, 
After  the  lord  and  lady  have  retired 
The  rude  domestics  give  it  strangest  shapes, 
Talking  around  the  fire,  —  and  suddenly, 
With  an  affrighted  heart  I  lay  awake, 
And  listened  eager  as  alarmed  air 
Which  has  been  traversed  by  a  sudden  cry. 
A  moment  told  me  all ;  I  ran  to  her, 
But  she  had  sunk  in  swoon,  and  there  I  stood 


A  BOY'S  POEM.  133 

Like  one  too  late  upon  a  brink,  who  sees 

The  water  closing  over  all  he  loves. 

I  knelt  down  by  the  bed.     "  Come,  Margery  I 

The  sea  is  glittering  in  the  sunny  bay, 

The  fisher's  nets  are  drying  on  the  shore, 

And  let  us  gather  silver  purple  shells 

For  necklaces.     You  have  been  in  the  woods  ; 

Your  lips  are  black  with  berries.     0,  the  boats, 

The  bonny,  bonny  boats  !     List,  the  fishers  sing  I  " 

"  0,  mother,  mother  !  " 

"  They  have  left  me  here, 
Upon  this  dark  and  dreadful,  dreadful  road ; 
I  cannot  hear  a  voice  or  touch  a  hand  ; 
0  Father,  take  me  home  !  "     She  sobbed  and  wept 
As  if  she  were  a  little  wandered  child. 
Her  Father  took  her  home.     I  stooped  to  catch 
Her  feeble  breath  ;  a  change  came  o'er  her  look, 
A  flutter  in  her  throat,  and  all  was  peace. 
Then  slowly  I  grew  conscious  that  the  dawn 
Filled  the  square  window  with  his  hateful  face, 
Staring  into  the  chamber  of  the  dead,  — 
And  with  affrighted  eyes  I  gazed  on  him. 


THE  CHANGE. 

"  OH  !  never,  never  can  I  call 

Another  morning  to  my  day, 
And  now  through  shade  to  shade  I  fall 

From  afternoon  to  evening  gray." 
In  bitterness  these  words  I  said, 

And  lo  1  when  I  expected  least, — 
For  day  was  gone, —  a  moonrise  spread 

Its  emerald  radiance  up  the  east. 

By  passion's  gaudy  candle-lights, 

I  sat  and  watched  the  world's  brave  play ; 
Blown  out, —  how  poor  the  trains  and  sights 

Looked  in  the  cruel  light  of  day  1 
I  cursed  Man  for  his  spaniel  heart, 

His  bounded  brain,  his  lust  of  pelf — 
Alas  !  each  crime  of  field  and  mart 

Lived  in  a  dark  disease  of  self. 

I  saw  the  smiles  and  mean  salaams 
Of  slavish  hearts  ;  I  heard  the  cry 

Of  maddened  people's  throwing  palms 
Befoie  each  cheered  and  timbreled  lie. 


THE   CHANGE.  135 

I  loathed  the  brazen  front  and  brag 

Of  bloated  time  ;  in  self-defence 
Withdrew  I  to  my  lonely  crag, 

And  fortress  of  indifference. 

But  Nature  is  revenged  on  those 

Who  turn  from  her  to  lonely  days  : 
Contentmejit,  like  the  speedwell,  blows 

Along  the  common-beaten  ways. 
The  dead  and  thick  green-mantled  moats 

That  gird  my  house  resembled  me, 
Or  some  long-weeded  hull  that  rots 

Upon  a  glazing  tropic  sea. 

And  madness  ever  round  us  lies, 

The  final  bourne  and  end  of  thought ; 
And  Pleasure  shuts  her  glorious  eyes 

At  one  cold  glance  and  melts  to  naught ; 
And  Nature  cannot  hear  us  moan  ; 

She  smiles  in  sunshine,  raves  in  rain  — 
The  music  breathed  by  Love  alone 

Can  ease  the  world's  immortal  pain. 

The  sun  forever  hastes  sublime, 
Waved  onward  by  Orion's  lance  ; 

Obedient  to  the  spheral  chime, 

Across  the  world  the  seasons  dance  ; 


136  CITY  POEMS. 

The  flaming  elements  ne'er  bewail 
Their  iron  bounds,  their  less  or  more  ; 

The  sea  can  drown  a  thousand  sail, 
Yet  rounds  the  pebbles  on  the  shore. 

I  looked  with  pride  on  what  1 'd  done, 

I  counted  merits  o'er  anew, 
In  presence  of  the  burning  sun, 

Which  drinks  me  like  a  drop  of  dew. 
A  lofty  scorn  I  dared  to  shed 

On  human  passions,  hopes,  and  jars, 
I  —  standing  on  the  countless  dead, 

And  pitied  by  the  countless  stars. 

But  mine  is  now  a  humbled  heart, 

My  lonely  pride  is  weak  as  tears  ; 
No  more  I  seek  to  stand  apart, 

A  mocker  of  the  rolling  years. 
Imprisoned  in  this  wintry  clime, 

I've  found  enough,  0  Lord  of  breath, 
Enough  to  plume  the  feet  of  time, 

Enough  to  hide  the  eyes  of  death. 


NOTICES  OF  ALEXANDER  SMITH, 

FROM  THE  LONDON  PRESS. 


SINCE  Tennyson,  no  poet  has  come  before  the  public  with  the  same  promise  as 

the  author  of  this  volume There  are  many  lines  and  sentences  in 

these  poems  which  must  become  familiar  on  the  lips  of  lovers  of  poetry.  —  Lit 
erary  Gazette. 

Most  abundant  in  beauties.  Our  extracts,  which  have  been  chosen  chiefly  to 
illustrate  our  account  of  the  poem,  have  scarcely  shown  the  poet  at  his  best. 
Everywhere  his  poem  has  lines  and  phrases  revealing  a  wealth  of  poetical 
thought  and  expression.  —  Athenaeum. 

It  is  to  the  earlier  works  of  Keats  and  Shelley  alone  that  we  can  look  for  a 
counterpart,  in  richness  of  fancy  and  force  of  expression The  ex 
tracts  will  induce  every  lover  of  true  poetry  to  read  the  volume  for  himself  5  we 
do  not  think  that,  after  such  reading,  any  one  will  be  disposed  to  doubt  that 
Alexander  Smith  promises  to  be  a  greater  poet  than  any  emergent  genius  of  the 
lost  few  years.  —  Spectator. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  these  poems  is  their  abundant  imagery,  — 
fresh,  vivid,  concrete  images  actually  present  to  the  poet's  mind,  and  thrown  out 
with  a  distinctiveness  and  a  delicacy  only  poets  can  achieve.  There  is  not  a  page 
of  this  volume  on  which  we  cannot  find  some  novel  image,  some  Shaksperian 
felicity  of  expression,  or  some  striking  simile.  —  Westminster  Review. 

Mr.  Smith  has  given  noble  proof  of  possessing  some  of  the  best  attributes  of 
the  true  poet.  Oae  of  his  special  characteristics  is  a  luxuriant  imagination, 


138        NOTICES  FROM  THE  LONDON  PRESS. 

* 

which  continually  suggests  poetical  images,  and  is  happily  allied  to  a  singular 
mastery  of  language  in  one  so  young,  which  enables  him  to  apply  them  with 
almost  intuitive  felicity.  Nearly  every  page  Is  studded  with  striking  metaphors. 
—  Sunday  Times. 

It  is  seldom  that  a  new  book  is  met  with  which  furnishes  such  incontestable 
evidence  of  the  possession  of  great  powers  by  the  author  as  the  present.  It  is 
Impossible  to  read  three  consecutive  pages  without  feeling  in  the  presence  of  a 
spirit  moved  with  a  profound  sense  of  all  forms  of  spiritual  beauty.  Mr.  Smith's 
language  is,  in  the  purest  sense  of  the  word,  poetic,  —  that  is,  it  is  not  only  the 
very  best  for  the  expression  of  the  idea,  but  is  suggestive,  —  it  summons  up 
all  the  accessories  to  the  idea.  It  is  strong  and  splendid,  like  golden  armor.  — 
Daily  News. 

We  have  quoted  enough,  and  yet  we  have  not  quoted  a  third  of  the  fine  pas 
sages  our  pencil  has  marked.  Having  read  these  extracts,  turn  to  any  poet  you 
will,  and  compare  the  texture  of  the  composition,  —  it  is  a  severe  test,  but  you 
will  find  that  Alexander  Smith  bears  it  well.  —  Leader. 


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GOETHE'S    WRITINGS. 

WILHELM  MEISTER.    Translated  by  THOMAS  CARLYLE.  2  vols. 

Price  $2.50. 

FAUST.    Translated  by  HAYWARD.    Price  75  cents. 
FAUST.    Translated  by  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS.    Price  $1.00. 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 

POEMS.     Cloth.    Price  63  cents. 

ADVENTURES  IIS  FAIRY  LAND.    Price  75  cents. 

SONGS  OF  BUMMER.    Price  75  cents. 


REV.  CHARLES  LOWELL,  D.  D. 

PRACTICAL  SERMONS.     1  vol.     12mo.    $1.25. 
OCCASIONAL  SERMONS.     With  fine  Portrait.    $1.25. 


GEORGE  LUNT. 

LYRIC  POEMS,  &c.     Cloth.    63  cents. 
JULIA.    A  Poem.    50  cents. 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY. 

THE  MYSTIC,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     50  cents. 
THE  ANGEL  WORLD,  &c.    50  cents. 


ANNA  MARY  HOWITT. 

AN  ART  STUDENT  IN  MUNICH.    Price  $1.25. 
A  SCHOOL  OF  LIFE.    A  Story.    Price  75  cents. 


MRS.  JAMESON. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.    Blue  and  gold.  75  cents. 

LOVES  OF  THE  POETS.  "  "  75  cents. 

DIARY  OF  AN  ENNUYEE.  "  "  75  cents. 


BY   TIOKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

OUR  VILLAGE.    Illustrated.    2  vols.     16mo.     Price  $2.50. 
ATHERTON,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.     1  vol.    16mo.    $1.26. 


MRS.  CROSLAND. 

LYDIA:    A  WOMAN'S   BOOK.     Cloth.    Price  76  cents. 
ENGLISH  TALES  AND   SKETCHES.     Cloth.    $1.00. 
MEMORABLE  WOMEN.    Illustrated.    $1.00. 


GRACE  GREENWOOD. 

GREENWOOD  LEAVES.    1st  &  2d  Series.    $1.25  each. 

POETICAL  WORKS.    With  fine  Portrait.     Price  75  cents. 

HISTORY  OF  MY  PETS.  With  six  fine  Engravings.  Scarlet 
cloth.  Price  50  cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD.  With  six  fine  En 
gravings.  Scarlet  cloth.  Price  50  cents. 

HAPS  AND  MISHAPS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  EUROPE.  Price 
$1.25. 

MERRIE  ENGLAND.     A  new  Juvenile.    Price  76  cents. 

A  FOREST  TRAGEDY,  AND  OTHER  TALES.    $1.00. 

A  NEW  JUVENILE.    (In  Press.) 


MRS.  MOWATT. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.    Price  $1.25. 
PLAYS.    ARMAND  AND  FASHION.    Price  60  cents. 
MIMIC  LIFE.     1  vol.     Price  $1.25. 
THE  TWIN  ROSES.    In  Press. 


8  A    LIST    OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED 

MRS.  HOWE. 

PASSION  FLOWERS.    Price  75  cents. 
WORDS  FOR  THE  HOUR.    Price  75  cents. 
THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

JOSIAH  PHILLIPS  QUINCY. 

LYTERIA:    A  DRAMATIC  POEM.    Price  50  cents. 
CHARICLES :    A  DRAMATIC  POEM.    Price  50  cents. 

ALICE  GARY. 

POEMS.    1  vol.    16mo.     Price  $1.00. 
CLOVERNOOK  CHILDREN.    With  Plates.    76  cents. 

MRS.  ELIZA  B.  LEE. 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  BUCKMINSTERS.    $1.25. 
FLORENCE,  THE  PARISH  ORPHAN.    50  cents. 

MRS.  JUDSON. 

ALDERBROOK.     BY  FANNY  FORRESTER.    2  vols.    Price  $1.75. 
THE   KATHAYAN   SLAVE,  AND    OTHER   PAPERS.      1  vol. 

Price  63  cents. 
MY  TWO  SISTERS:  A  SKETCH  FROM  MEMORY.    Price  50  cents. 

POETRY. 

LEIGH  HUNT'S  POEMS.    Blue  arid  gol.l.    2  vols.    $1.50. 
GERALD    MASSEY'S    POETICAL    WORKS.      Blue    and  gold. 

75  cents. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY.    BALLADS.    1  vol.    16mo.    76  cents. 
ALEXANDER  SMITH'S  POEMS.    1vol.    16mo.     Cloth.    60  cts. 
CHARLES  MACKAY'S  POEMS.     1  vol.     Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 
HENRY  ALFORD'S  POEMS.    Just  out.    Price  $1.25. 
RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES.    POEMS   OF   MANY   YEARS. 

Boards.     Price  75  cents. 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER.    PLAYS  AND  POEMS.    2  vols.  Price  $2.00. 
CHARLES  SPRAGUE.    POETICAL  AND  PROSE  WRITINGS.    With 

fine  Portrait.    Boards.    Price  76  cents. 
GERMAN  LYRICS.    Translated  by  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS.    1  vol. 

16mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  POEMS.    Price  76  cents. 
W.  EDMONSTOUNE  AYTOUN.    BOTHWELL.    Price  76  cents. 


BY    TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 


THOMAS  W.  PARSONS.    POEMS.    Price  $1.00. 

JOHN  G.  SAXE.  POEMS.  With  Portrait.  Boards,  68  cents. 
Cloth,  76  cents. 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN.    POEMS.    Cloth.    Price  76  cents. 
ROWRING'S  MATINS  AND  VESPERS.    Price  60  cents. 

VRIARTE'S  FABLES.  Translated  by  G.  H.  DEVEREUX.  Price 
63  cents. 

MEMORY  AND  HOPE.  A  BOOK  OP  POEMS,  REFERRING  TO 
CHILDHOOD.  Cloth.  Price  $2.00. 

THALATTA:  A  BOOK  FOR  THE  SEA-SIDE.  1vol.  16mo.  Cloth- 
Price  75  "cents. 

PHCEBE  GARY.    POEMS  AND  PARODIES.    76  cents. 
PREMICES.    By  E.  FOXTON.    Price  $1.00. 
PAUL  H.  HAYNE.    Poems.    1  vol.    16mo.    63  cents. 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

G.  H.  LEWES.  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF  GOETHE.  2  vols. 
16mo.  $2.50. 

OAKFIELD.    A  Novel.     By  LIEUT.  ARNOLD.    Price  $1.00. 
ESSAYS  ON  THE  FORMATION   OF  OPINIONS   AND   THE 
PURSUIT  OF  TRUTH.    1  vol.    16mo.    Price  $1.00. 

WALDEN:  OR,  LIFE  IN  THE  WOODS.  By  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 
1  vol.  16mo.  Price  $1.00. 

LIGHT  ON  THE  DARK  RIVER :  OR,  MEMOIRS  OF  MRS. 
HAMLIN.  1  vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  MONALDI,  a  Tale.  1  vol.  IGmo. 
75  cents. 

PROFESSOR  E.  T.  CHANNING.  LECTURES  ON  ORATORY  AND 
RHETORIC.  Price  75  cents. 

JOHN  C.  FREMONT.  LIFE,  EXPLORATIONS,  &c.  With  Illustra 
tions.  Price  75  cents. 

SEED-GRAIN  FOR  THOUGHT  AND  DISCUSSION.  Compiled 
by  MRS.  A.  C.  LOWELL.  2  vols.  $1.75. 

A  PHYSICIAN'S  VACATION.  By  DR.  WALTER  CHANNING. 
Price  $1.50. 

MRS.  HORACE  MANN.    A  PHYSIOLOGICAL  COOKERY  BOOK. 

ROBERTSON'S  SERMONS.     1  vol.     12mo.     $1.00. 


10  A   LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


WILLIAM  MOUNTFORD.  THORPE:  A  QUIET  ENGLISH  Tows, 
AND  HUMAN  LIFE  THEREIN.  16ino.  Price  $1.00. 

NOTES  FROM  LIFE.  BY  HENBY  TAYLOR,  author  of  *  Philip 
Van  Artevelde.'  1  vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  Price  63  cents. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.  By  HORACE  and  JAMES  SMITH. 
Boards,  Price  60  cents.  Cloth,  63  cents. 

WARRENIANA.  A  Companion  to  the  '  Rejected  Addresses.'  Price 
63  cents. 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH'S    BIOGRAPHY.    2  vols.    $2.50. 

ART  OF  PROLONGING  LIFE.  By  HUFELAND.  Edited  by 
ERASMUS  WILSON,  F.  R.  S.  1  vol.  16mo.  Price  75  cents. 

JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM'S  PERSONAL  MEMOIRS  AND 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EDITORIAL  LIFE.  With  Portrait. 
2  vols.  16mo.  Price  $1.60. 

VILLAGE  LIFE  IN  EGYPT.  By  the  Author  of  '  Purple  Tints  of 
Paris.'  2  vols.  16mo.  Price  $1.25. 

DR.  JOHN  C.  WARREN.  THE  PRESERVATION  OF  HEALTH,  &o. 
1  vol.  Price  38  cents. 

PRIOR'S  LIFE  OF  EDMUND  BURKE.    2  vols.    $2.00. 

NATURE  IN  DISEASE.  BY  DR.  JACOB  BIGELOW.  1  vol.  16mo. 
Price  $1.25. 

WENS  LEY:  A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  MORAL.    Price  75  cents. 

GOLDSMITH.  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  Illustrated  Edition. 
Price  $3.00. 

PALISSY  THE  POTTER.  By  the  Author  of  '  How  to  make  Home 
Unhealthy.'  2  vols.  16mo.  Price  $1.50. 

THE  BARCLAYS  OF  BOSTON.  BY  MRS.  H.  G.  OTIS.  1  vol. 
12mo.  $1.25. 


BY   TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS.  11 

HORACE  MANN.    THOUGHTS  FOR  A  YOUNG  MAN.    25  cents. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.    SERMONS  OF  CONSOLATIO>      $1.00. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK.    Price  $1.25. 

ANGEL-VOICES.    Price  38  cents. 

SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLET.    From  the  '  Spectator.'    76  cents. 

S.  T.  WALLIS.    SPAIN,  HER  INSTITUTIONS,  POLITICS,  AND  PUB 
LIC  MEN.    Price  $1.00. 

MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  WHEATON.    1  vol.    Price  $1.00. 
LABOR  AND  LOVE  :    A  TALK  OF  ENGLISH  LIFE.     60  cent*. 

MRS.  PUTNAM'S  RECEIPT  BOOK  ;    AN  ASSISTANT  TO  HOUSE- 
KJCEPERS.     1  vol.     16mo.     Price  60  cents. 

MRS.  A.  C.  LOWELL.    EDUCATION  OF  GIRLS.    Price  26  cents. 

THE  SOLITARY  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ.    By  the  Author  of 
Picciola.    Price  60  cents. 

RUTH.    A  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of  '  MARY  BARTON.'    Cheap 
Edition.     Price  38  cents. 


EACH  OF  THE  ABOVE   POEMS  AND   PROSE   WRITINGS,  MAT  BB   HAD 
Df   VARIOUS   STYLES   OF   HANDSOME    BINDING. 


Any  book  published  by  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  will  be  sent  by 
mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  publication  price. 

Their  stock  of  Miscellaneous  Books  is  very  complete,  and  they 
respectfully  solicit  orders  from  CITY  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRA 
RIES. 


UNIVEKSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 


c 

expiration 

of  loan 

period. 

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c'NOV  1.7  1958  L  U 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


